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t

FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION

OR

PRIESTS, mriDELS, AND HUGUENOTS

IN THE REIGN OF LOUIS XV.

BYL F. BUNGENER,

▲ OTHOR or "*H1 BISTORT Of *HB COUBCIL Of TEMT," ITO.

AUTHORIZED TRANSLATIOIf.

VOL II.

EDINBURGH: THOMAS CONSTABLE AND CO.
LONDON: HAMILTON, ADAMS, AND CO.

SCDCCCLIV.

^3J, ^.7.

iDivarROH : T. ooiiatai>lii, peintbr to bur majmtt.

FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

CHAPTER I.

Court and Kabaut looked at each other in astonishment.
Court could not at all understand the object of this visit from
a man whom he knew only by reputation. Eabaut wished
to go away, intending to appear afterwa^m. All things
considered, he remained.

" I was not mistaken," said the missionary, on perceiving
him. " It was you that I was seeking, sir ; I only came to
inquire of your friend your place of residence. — But you were
conversing, gentlemen ; I have interrupted you."

" An agreeable interruption," said Gebelin, " since it pro-
cures me the honour" —

Bridaine bowed.

" We have not met again," resumed he, addressing Rabaut,
" since Versailles."

" Do you think so?" said Rabaut. " Shall I tell you where
you were an hour ago?"

" Have you seen Bruyn?"

" Bruyn ? I do not know where he is. But I saw you in
the court of the Palace of Justice. You were present — at all

VOL. n. A

2 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

that was done tLere. You picked up two leaves Lalf-bumt ;
you looked at them — with an expression" —

" Yes," said Bridaine, with some embarrassment. " But
how came I to be there?"

" I saw you ; I know nothing further."

" I had just visited, in his dungeon, the man whom you
saw at Meaux, at the door of a church. He was recognised
and arrested. He may be executed very soon. He wishes to
see you."

" I shall go to him. Shall I be admitted ?"

*' I will procure for you the necessary authorization."

Kabaut believed the Cevenol to be guilty of the attempt to
assassinate the Colonel. Bridaine did not think proper to
correct his mistake, nor %o speak to him of the steps he was
going to take to try and save Bruyn.

They sat down. Bridaine would have preferred being alone
with Eabaut ; Eabaut, with Bridaine. An astonishing degree
of communion had arisen between these two minds. They
felt mutually elevated enough to join hands across the barriers
raised between the two Churches.

The conversation, in the absence of more interesting sub-
jects, turned upon Gebelin's labours. Bridaine had heard
much of them. Eabaut, as a friend and as a Protestant, was
proud of them ; he did not rest till the learned man had laid
before the missionary, as he had just done before him, the
plan of his gigantic work. Bridaine was amazed at it. Prac-
tical men are apt to be more alarmed than others at the great
labours of the study.

" Well," said the minister, " all Benedictines do not wear
the garb of St. Benedict, do they?"

" I did not think that amidst the engagements of the world,
there were men so worthy of wearing it."

" The engagements of the world," resumed Rabaut, " only

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AMD HUGUENOTS. 6

injure those who are absorbed by them. In a mind naturally
strong and active, they give rise to a struggle in which it
can but gain strength, resources, and increased activity. To
a man of such a mind, the thought of the time lost is but a
stimulus to employ well what is left. He is as eager to work
as others are to enjoy themselves. He does more, in a few
hours perhaps, than a studious man who has all his time at
his command, and is never interrupted, never excited."

Bridaine smiled. ^^ Is that observation levelled against
monasteries?" said he.

" I was not thinking of them, " said the minister ; " but if
I had thought of them, should I have been in the wrong ?
Have we had fewer learned men without the cloister than you
with it? And even, not to speak of another Church than
your own, have you not had learned men enough who were
not cloistered?"

'^It was not to form learned men that monasteries were
founded."

" I am aware of it ; never was science less thought of than
in the ages when the greatest number of them were founded.
But that does not prevent the services they may have rendered
in this respect from being generally brought forward in our
day, as a powerful argument in their favour. It is to this
lurgument that my observation might furnish a reply."

'^ Is it not in monasteries that all the standard works of
ancient literature have been preserved?"

" Yes," said Grebelin ; " but in what way ? I have made
some researches, the result of which has struck me, so little is
it in accordance with what I was accustomed to hear alleged
by your Church. In the first place, for a benefit to deserve
gratitude, the benefactor must have intended to render a ser-
vice ; at least, he must not have rendered it quite uncon-
jsciously. Were the monks the least conscious in this matter

of what fiiture ages would owa them? Could many be c
who, when taking care of Vu-gil, Cicero, and Tacitus for ub,
knew what they were taking care of? The best proof Uiat
tliey did not, ia the condition in which they have handed duwn
these manuscripts to UB ; and, still more, the fearl'ul number I
Ihat they iiave spoiled or allowed to be lost. What ibey
restored to us at the revival of letters, was not the thousandth
part of what they ought to have kept, and might have I
kept. And how many works have been entirely lost I How 1
many authors whose names alone remain to us ! How many ]
first-rate works of which only three or four manuscript*, some-
times only one, has been found in all Europe ; which has
heen the case, for instance, with Phtedms, amongst others dia- 1
covered at St. Binoit-sur-Loire ; and even it might hava J
remained there buried for ever, had it not been for the pillage I
of the abbey in 1563. We have not even Cicero complete^ I
although one of those the least ill treated in the oblivion of B
thousand years."

" I already pointed out," said Bridaine, " that monasterieisj
were not established to serve as libraries. Perhaps,
the argument to which you reply, has been abused. Never-B
theless, the fact remains ; without monasteries, where could yon, m
who are such a lover of antiquity, have gone to seek for it?'

" Without monasteries, sir, that is to say, without the ay
tem of which monasteries were one of the consequences, 1-M
think we could have done without people to take c
books, seeing they would never have mn the risk of being)
lost. The history of the decline of learning may, it appear
to me, be divided into three periods. In the first, the Churcl
assumed gradually the monopoly of learning ; in the secon^H
having day by day less to do in order to remain above tli<
intellectual level of mankind, she sank into ignorance ; ii
third, she ends by finding herself inferior, if not to maE

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 5

at large, at least to that portion of mankind which has began
once more to think and investigate : it is from without, from
her enemies, that intellectual and literary life will return to
her. You speak of the Benedictines. They were the first, I
know, to form an exception ; but their greatest works are pos-
terior to the Reformation ; and I could show you traces of
this great revival at every page. And what had the Refor-
mation to do, in order to give the signal for such multi-
plied labours, in order to put into activity all the intellectual
power in the opposite camp as well as in its own ? Very little,
almost nothing. An old book was brought out of the dust ;
this dust was that which your Church had allowed to cover
it, and then decreed that it should remain covered by it for
ever. Hardly had this book seen the light, when everything
in the world of ideas seemed only to exist by and for it.
Printing was proud to serve it ; all the sciences, all the arts
converged towards it. Doctrines, which you may consider
false, but of which you cannot deny the immense renovating
power, flowed from those pages so long and so obstinately
veiled. With this book in their hand, a few men were found
strong enough to resist all the powers of Europe; learned
against all her science, invincible against all those who repre-
sented the past — ^which had received its death-blow, from the
pope to the emperor, and the magistrate to the executioner."

" Might I not," said Bridaine, " give the opposite side of
all this ? I should then say, that it is not the first time that
God has allowed evil to gain the victory. Is emancipation
always a benefit ? The fruit that the first man plucked in the
earthly paradise was delicious also — and yet it was forbidden
fruit."

" Forbidden by God ; and on that account, and that ac-
count only, his action was a crime."

" I understand. You are going to say, that the study of

8 FHAKCE BEFORE THE BEVOI-imON.

yet have persisted in recommending' her wotsliip, as having'
beg^un in the early days of the Church, as estabhshed under
the direction of God and His apostles I Yuu have found in
the Bible a hundred invitations to reail it, a hundred tliiuga
that exclude the idea of any kind of restriction to these invi-
tations ; you have seen that the Puthers advise, recommend,
and iinivcrRftlly enjoin the reading' of it, and yon prohibit it I"

" 1 1 never."

"Never? Then I have nothing further to say; it is a
matter betweiin you and your Church. Her voice, you said,
is the voice of God. H Goil ordered me to take away the
Bible from my brethren, I should take caai; not to leave it to

"And I too — if the Church had absolutely forbidden it.
Does not the Council of Trent authorize us to allow those to
read it, whom we shall consider fit to profit by it ?"

" liCt every one read it, then ; for if there is one thing that
the Fathers appear to have desired to settle thoroughly, it is
precisely this, that the Scriptiires were made for all, good for
all, necessary to all."

" Other times require other rules."

" Doubtless ; but here it would be necessary to forget how
the rule has arisen. It came too late ; it was when the Bible,
which had been lost, and was found again, threatened the insti-
tutions, the dogmas, the very existence of your Church, that ,
you set about forbidding it. In the twelfth, in the thirteenth
centuriee, when it was less read than e^er, there had, not-
withstanding', been as yet no prohibition against readmg it.
In the sixteenth, when it fell by chance into the hands o£i
Luther, Luther, in studying it, as yet violated no law Thei^'
came the Council- — and the prohibition was made ; a bold but
dangerous avowal of what we have repeated for two centuries
past, namely, that you cannot stand before the Bible, and that

PJRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 9

there wfll for eyer be a deadly strife between yon and it.
You permit those to read it whom you consider fit to profit by
it, say you ; but if all your colleagues, which is not the case,
were to do as much — if, on the contrary, there was not a very
great niunber who do not themselves know the Scriptures — is it
enough to permit f What should you think of a priest who
permitted people to attend mass, permitted them to confess,
permitted them to take the communion ? What would the
Augustines, the Jeromes, the Chrysostoms have thought of a
priest who in their day had confined himself to permitting what
they recommended — and that with such warmth, to the igno-
rant as well as to the learned, to the poor as well as the rich ?
Other times require other laws, did you say? I know that
these Fathers sometimes complained of the errors to which
this liberty gave rise ; but what did they conclude thence ?
That it must be taken away from Christians ? No ; the only
remedy that they saw for the inconveniences attendant on
the reading of the Bible was a more frequent and more atten-
tive reading of it. On the other hand, nothing can be more
embarrassing for an advocate of your Church, than the very
nature of the errors of which they complained. Amongst
those heresiarchs, who might be reckoned by hundreds, and
who went so deeply into all the questions of discipline and
dogma — how comes it that not one should have attacked what
our Reformers attacked? Why do we not see those who carried
independence so far as to admit of no restraint, no rule of any
kind, attacking confession ? Why do we not see those who
would have no clergy, attacking the Pope ? Why do those
who would have no ceremony in public worship, not speak of
abolishing the mass? Why do those who made Christ a
mere doctor, not speak of refusing their homage to the Vir-
gin ? Let this be explained to me, or let me be allowed to
conclude that there was in the three first centuries, neither

10 FHANCE BEFORE THE BETOLTTTrOS,

Pope, nor confeBsion, nor masa, nor anything of the kind ;
yon are not, I think, of those who presume to say that if thewl
things were not attacked, it is becanee they were then u
sally admitted and beyond all dispute."

" We do not deny," said Bridaine, " that certain dogmas
and certain practices may have been carried further in the
course of time than at their origin ; but yon forget that we
admit, on the other hand, the perpetual intervention of God
in all that the Churcb does or says. The development of
a doctrine is therefore as sacred as its principle. When yon
have shown that we aro not exactly what we were fifteen or
sixteen centuries back, what have you gained ? Because a
man at thirty is more developed in every way than at twenty,
will yon contest bis right to present himself as the same indi-
vidual, to bear the same name, to inherit the same patrimony?"

" No," said Rabaut, " I would contest his right t(
which shall have been incontestably his from his birth, (
virtue of his birth ; but whatever more he lays claim to, 1
should ask to see his title-deeds. Where are yonrs ? Can ii
reasonably let yoii say, 'Believe, for the Church :
fallible'? In order to believe her infallibility, on hei
word, we must believe first that she is not mistaken in »
ing it. If I am not persuaded of it beforehand, what v
]ier affirmation signify to me ? Tour title-deeds, if you havj
any, are and can be, after all, only in the Bible. Were j
possessed of every other right, you have not that of concealiaj
it from those who, before believing, wish to see them there w
their own eyes."

" That of absolutely hiding it, no ; that of taking it £
those who are not in a condition to read it with advantago,U
given us by reason itself. Would you ask a father by whj
right he takes away from his children books that, a
to his views, they could not read without danger?"

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 11

" You are moving in a circle, and there is no question on
which your Church, if hard pressed, is not immediately re-
duced to that. As soon as you begin to reason, you not only
lose all your advantages, but you necessarily get without the
limits of the laws of logic. A dispute, of whatever nature,
supposes the possibility of a defeat ; you are obliged to give
out beforehand that you will not yield, that you cannot yield.
All struggle is therefore an illusion on your side ; to order,
and to constrain, is the only part that you can act consistently
with your principles. Thus, nothing can be more awkward
or more embarrassed than the regulations made at Trent on
the subject of the reading and interpretation of the sacred
writings. It was impossible to permit it, nor could they dare
interdict it entirely. It was therefore necessary to give with
one hand, and to withdraw with the other. Nothing can be
more curious than the debates to which the wording of this
decree gave rise ; and hardly had it appeared when, at Rome,
it was considered too liberal. Three months after the Council
was closed, Pius IV. interpreted it in the sense of an almost
absolute prohibition ; and not ten years ago an Inquisitor-
General* dared to write : * Some men have carried audacity
to the execrable extremity ' — of reading the Bible ? No — * of
€i$king for permission to read it I ' And this is the state of
things in Spain, the most popish kingdom. Is it otherwise
elsewhere? Can you name to me a country where your
Church does not employ all her strength and influence against
the Bible ? Wherever she allows it to be read, it is because
she cannot prevent it. Wherever she can burn those who
read it, she bums them. Where she can only bum the Bible
iteelf"—

Bridaine shuddered. Rabaut paused for a few seconds.

** Conscience has spoken," resumed he. " I see that I have

• P«ret d«l Pndo, 1750.

1 2 FHASCE BEFOBE THE BEVOLUnON.

touched a wound which is bleeding at your heart. Courage !
Take out those two leaves tliat 1 saw you pick up in the court
of the Palace of Juefce for I was there, you know."

He took them o t The hoik that had just been lacerated
and burned by the hand f>f the executioner, in the year of
Grace 1760, at lans w th th Etpril by HeWetiiis, U Homme
Plants by Lan ettr c and tie Lettres Chinoisee by d'Argens,
was — the New restament

There they stood, all three, contemplating those two leavea,
blackened, cmmpled, and soiled with mud. They were sileut,
but agitated by very different feelings. With Bridaine they
were those of embarrassment and Khnme ; the painful depres-
sion of a man condemned to share a responsibility that hjs
heart shrinks from. He did not allow himself vanquished ;
but he had no longer either strength, or courage, or wish to
contend further. With Eabaut they were those of mingled pity
for his adversary, indignation against an impious despotism,
but, above all, of love for tie sacred volume so shamefiilly"'
profaned. He would fajn have pressed thoBo pages to his lij
as the sacred remains of martyrs were embraced in former tinu
amidst the ashes of the stake. Finally, with his friend, the^f '
wero those of a cooler indignation, and of the pity of a think-.
ing mind for those who imagine that by burning a little paper
they can keep down the rising of conscience and thought.

"Give me those pages," said the minister iit length,
shall keep them as a remembrance of my journey to Paris."

" Take them," said the priest. " But no ; not yet. I
to read them i I wish them to be useful to me too. I s
preach in a few days."

"Well?"

" I mean to take my test from them."

Bridaine was glai! of the kind of expiation he had
thought of. He joined by this means, as much as a Rom!

aei^H

ler^^

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 13

GOuld, in the regret at having seen the Bible burned ; he
offered to the two Protestants and to God a reparation for the
outrage done to the sacred volume. He wished even to go
farther : " Help me to choose," said he.

" I will read," said Rabaut. " Give them to me : —

" ' they came to Thessalonica, where was a synagogue

of the Jews :

^^ ^ And Pttul, as his manner was, went in unto them, and
three sabbath-days reasoned with them out of the Scrip-
tures J''*

Babaut, without raising his eyes, stopped. Gebelin smiled.
Indeed, after the discussion that had just taken place, the last
words were almost an epigram. He resumed —

" ' Opening and alleging that Christ must needs have suf-
fered, and have risen again from the dead.' "

The next lines were illegible.

" * they drew Jason, and certain brethren, unto the

rulers of the city, crying. These that have turned the world
upside down are come hither also.' "

" Those men were indeed quite wroug," said Gebelin.
" Why did they not follow the customs of their fathers in
peace? What madness to wish to change that which had
existed for so many ages 1 Besides, the Jewish Church had
received firom Gt)d the most magnificent promises. What
temerity to suppose it degenerated, and likely to be mis-
taken I "

" Are we going to begin our discussion again ? " said the
missionary.

" I beg your pardon ; it escaped me involuntarily."

" Those who are persecuted," said Rabaut, " could scarcely
avoid laying hold of all that may seem an allusion to their
misfortunes, above all, in Scripture."

* ActsxTii.

14 FRANCE BEFOBE THE BEVOLUTIOS.

" Excuse me," repeated Gebelin. " And yet, while we are
on this point, allow uie to ask you if the analogy tliat 1
pointed out has never presented itself to your own mind?
You enumerate promises from whenc* it would seem, accord-
ing to you, that your Churclt cannot be mietaken, and that^
therefore, when she condemns us, we are justly and truly con-(
deuined. I will not for the present discuss these promiseK''
I admit that it is to you, and to you alone, that they addrea-
tiiemselves, or thut they can be addressed. But the Jews had
received many others."

" For a time."

" Agreed ; but let me conclude. They hod received pro"
mises, 1 say, far more clear, since no one amongst thein evflf
had a thougbt of doubting it, whilst there has always beei^
even before our time, Christians who did not understand (
you do, the assistance promised to the Church,
mises, besides, had been coa£rmed by facts. God had, in t
manner, visibly presided over the destiny of His people ;
had never ceased to watch over the purity of the fa
preached by Moses, not only by ordinary means, but by a
cial ministers — the prophetB. Thus the Jews had all th
reasons for believing in the infallibiiilj of their Churcli th
you have for believing in the infallibility of yours : they lu
them, I maintain, corroborated by the history of many ce
turies, during which Divine interposition had been manifi
and incontestable. This assurance, say you, was but tot,
time. Yes ; but it was to last, at least, till the time came S
passing under another law. When the body of their doom
denied that Jesus was the Christ, what sign i
they were no longer the only and the true leaders of t
nation ? None. Nothing had as yet announced that 1
primitive promises were no longer to be relied upon. Tl
were nevertheless mistaken, grossly mistaken. And yoa a

:.1

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AMD HUGUENOTS. 15

even though there had been ages during which you could not
be mistaken, you may be so now ; and if the high-priest
erred in not receiving the Christian law, the Bishop of Eome
may have erred in anathematizing Luther and his followers.
Therefore"—

" Do not insist upon it," said Rabaut. " We could not
read one line but would furnish matter for observations of
this kind. I go on — ' and these all do contrary to the decrees
of Csesar' "—

But Court interrupted again — " Yes," said he, " not a line,
indeed, in this picture of the persecutions of those times,
but seems written with a view to us, and against the laws
that oppress us. * These all act contrary to the decrees of
Caesar,' was said at Rome — * These act contrary to the de-
crees of the king,' you repeat in France, and thereupon" —

" I have never approved," said Bridaine, " the intervention
of the civil authority in what concerns matters of faith."

" Do you blame persecution ? "

" I detest it."

" QiA be praised 1 at least there is one who does so. But
how, then, can you remain the friend and minister of a
Church that persecutes ? How not, at least, stand up against
the horrors with which she is tainted?"

"M. Rabaut has seen me at my work amongst the Pro-
testants of Languedoc. Let him say whether I had recourse
to"—

" No ; " said Rabaut ; " but you do not answer. You
preached forbearance, it is true ; you said you would have no
other weapon than that of persuasion ; but you well knew
that before, behind, beside you, were men animated by very
different sentiments. You knew that those Protestants whom
you addressed outwardly as brethren, were treated as enemies,
as slaves, as the refuse of mankind. When, and to whom did

E BEFOBF. THE REVOLI

you say clearly, that conacienee ought to be free, that God.
alone has the power and the right to rule over it ; that tl
both error and sacrilege in interfering between it and God?
When, and to whom did you say — hut forg^ive me ! It is not
with you, it ia with your Church that the fault lies. To use
compulsion is a necessary, inevitable, and fatal conseqiience
of the principles which she has laid down. As soon as she
censes to have this power of computsioa in her hands, as soon
aB, for one reason or another, she ceases to use it, what ii
more than any other Church ? As soon as the question is only
one of reasoning, persuasion, or conviction, what is Rome more
than Geneva?"

"And her unity?" said Bridaine, "and the support of aoM
many millions of men ?"

" Humanly speaking, it is clear that her position is a maoij^
better one Tou have inoontestably everything necessary to''^
n lu th B who arc disposed to receive a ready-made reli-

n t tl w themBeives into your arms rather than into j
tl f ministers. What I intended to say, and what J

u ann t deny, is this, that once constraint is taken off, the J
n n w) fleets feels himself immediately as free in regar^l
to your doctrmes as in regard to ours. Unity, numbers, anti* \
quity, all that is but a presumption — favom-able, it is true, bidl
which can by no means be weighed against arguments C
facts. I repeat, take away conLpulaion, and yon have nothin
more than we have. Are we not provingit to you here at thijn
very moment? We have been arguing for nearly an hour with ]
you. Have you found that the unity and infallibility of your |
Church gave you any advantage over us? Have you even i
tried to convince us by arguing from this unity or this infal^- j
libility? You have felt that these are arguments available J
only with those already convinced, or disposed at least, to bol
BO, without examination. In themselves they prove nothinj^ I

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 17

for yon must always begin by proving them ; and thus we are
at once on the ground of simple reasoning — on that ground
where no one has any other right to plead than that of good
sense and history. J£ we had yielded just now, would it have
been because you were the organ of one Church more than
another ? By no means. We should have yielded to your
arguments ; that is to say, to the authority of reason, not to
that of a man or a Church. If we are not convinced, if
your arguments appear insufficient to us, what greater influ^
ence can you have over us tban any other doctor ? What can
your Church do ? There is no medium ; either you must let
us alone, or you must persecute. And there lies — allow me to
say so — there lies the first punishment of her pride. Either
she must be exclusive, intolerant, and cruel, or she must
immediately come down to the level of those sects of whom
she speaks with so much contempt. She cannot remain
what she is without sinking more and more into discredit in
the eyes of reason and humanity ; she cannot change without
denying her very self."

" Toleration, from what I see," said Bridaine, " would not
find you very grateful."

" We should be grateful, really grateful towards the men
who would grant it to us, although, strictly speaking, there
is no room for gratitude on account of the cessation of an
iniquity; as for your Church, there is no fear that she
will with her foil consent give us the opportunity of being
ungratefiil."

" Who knows ? A pamphlet has recently appeared" —

" The Conciliateur^ you mean ?"

" Yes. You would subscribe to almost the whole of it."

"True."

" Do you know by whom it is written ?"

" Not surely by a priest."

VOL. II. B

.NCE BEFORE THE KEVOLOTION.

" Toil are mistaken. It is by the Abbe de Briemie, Grand
Vicar of the Archhishop of Rouen."

" Indeed ? Well, wait till he is an archhishop himse
If he pereevere, I shall confess myself vanquished,"

" You are inexorable."

" Because I know with -whom we have to deal. You hav*
no lack of young priests, -who, partly firom liberalism, par
from infidelity,* outvie each other in the present day in tolol
ration. When they have obtained preferment, what becomes '
of these fine speeches ? Ton have of late years seen several
of those attain to the mitre, who had been the most dis-
tinpiished hi the drawing--roomB of Paris for the generc«ity
and liberality of their views. What have they done for us?
Or rather, what have they not done agamst ua ? It is very,
plam. Ab soon as a man becomes one of the leaders in your
Church, he must either renounce her, ot do as she doesj
After the awful anathemas which your Popes have laid upc
us, what bishop could treat us a£ brethren ? After the (
couragements given hy your Church to the sovereigns \
persecuted us ; after the pompous eulogiuros, so often larg
bestowed by her on those who injured us the moat, w
blame what she has advised, ordered, and praised e
without condemning her ? No, no I it is not from
we shall ever obtain anything. K toleration docs come),i
will not be without her having struggled to tile very last-tt
maintain intolerance. If peace is established, the Chua
may submit to it, but as for putting her own hand to t
work, never 1"

WaH Gehelin too severe? He might then h.ive
thought BO, especially ui the presence of Bridaine ; hut e
have only proved too well that he was right. We know
the clergy struggled to the very last extremity against the

• Tlie Abbe deBricoDe ins TtijluUmiu with aiBAbUH

PRteaTB, ISymELS, AKD tTUGUENOTS, W

lilt views of Louis XVt. and his council ; and ea for the
e de Brienne, this ib the language in which he expreHied
himself^ when he had become an archbi^op, in hie address to
that prince at his coronation, after he had been made to sit'ear,
according to custom, " to esterminate in eamcBt all heretics :"
" Sire, jou will reject all coniisels to a faisp peace, all sys-
tems of guilty toleration. We conjure you, do not put off
taking from error all hope of having altars and tcraples in the
midst of ns ; complete the work that Louis the Great under-
took, and Louis the Beloved continued. It is reserved for you
to strike the last blow against Calvinism in your StateH.
Command that the assemblies of Protestants be broken np.
Exclude all sectarians, without distinction, ironi all branches
of public administration ; and you will secure to your subjects
^^Kb unity of tnie Christian worship."
^^■l" God will judge," said Bridaine.
^^b*' God will judge," said Rabant. " Irft ua go on : —
^^■* ' And they troubled the people, and the rulers of the city,
^^Hkn they heard these things.

^^B'* ' And when they had taken security of Jason, and of the
^^teier, they let them go.

" ' Anit the brethren immediately sent away Paul and Silas
by night unto Ber»a : who, coming thither, went into the
synagogue of the Jews,

" ' These were more noble than those of Thessalonica, in
that they received the word with all readiness of mind, and
tearcAed the Scriptures daily, whether those things were so.' "
^Hb Sabaut, without interrupting his reading, had laid an em-
^^■tois on these last details.
^^-"Well?" said Gebelin.

"Well?" said the miaaionary.

" I wiU not aflk you," resumed Gebelin, " for it would be
almost a sarcasm, if yon are going to take that for your test ;

but let me aak you ftg'ttin, Beriously and fratemaliy, what y
make of these lines? Here are people to wbom it seems thA
even an apostle ougbt not to be believed on his mere word
here is the fellow-labourer of that apostle, St, Luke, author
of the book of the Acta, who is not satisfied with taking; the
thing as natural, but pra.i8es thorn highly for it. They bo-
liove, but only when they have seen thut his doctrines are il
the Scriptures." " '

" In what Scriptures, if you please? In the Old Testament;
in the prophecies that foretold Jesus Christ. Nothing could
l>e more natural, as yon say, than to consult them, since their
object was to assist the Jews in recognising the Messiah,
it the same with the New Testament? Are the books
it contains of such a nature that their contents can only,
ought only, to be known by .reading them ?
yourselves, in your churches, people who do not read thei
people who cannot read?"

" We have none belonging to lie latter class ; and it
small praise of the Reformation, we may remark by the
that it has done so much, since its origin, lor tlie instructi*
of the people. 'Where formerly two or three could
says Luther somewhere, ' yon will now scarcely find twof'
three who cannot.' If it were otherwise, what would
prove ? Is a law only just and good if every one can
will take advantage of it ? Because there are people beloi
ing to a Church, who cannot read, or do not care to read, shall
that Church have a right to esaot that I accept, like them, a
n-ady-made religion, without putting it to the test ? Confess,
my dear sir, confess that you feel somewhat uneasy when yon
are obliged to give reasons of no greater weight than these to
well-informed and conscientious men who are capable of re-
flecting ! Ton are, perhaps, not aware how powerfully
were refuted in the first centuries, by those very vniters wl

1

PIOESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 21

utithority on all other matters appears to you so weighty and
so sacred ? A folio yolume might be made of what they have
said on. this subject. There is a certain sermon of St. Chry-
sostom's in particular, which might be thought to have been
written by a Protestant of our day, so clearly and directly
does it reply to all that is objected against us. ^ When we
receive money/ says he, * we insist on counting it ourselves ;
and when Divine things are concerned, shall we give in
tamely to the opinions of others ? Consult the Scriptures ! '
But they are not clear enough. ' The Holy Spirit,' replies he,
^ intrusted the composition of them to unlettered men, in order
that every one, even the least educated, might understand
the word, and profit by it.' But have we time to occupy our-
selves with these things ? ' Let no one allege such miserable
excuses as these : I must gain my livelihood ; I must feed
my children ; it is not my business to read the Scriptures,
but that of those who have given up the world. Poor man I
is it, then, because you are disturbed by a thousand cares that
it is not for you to read the Word of God ? You need it even
more than those who have retired firom the world to give their
whole time to Gtxi.' This is what St. Chrysostom says. Point
out to us a single one of the Fathers who does not say
nearly as much— one who preached from the Bible without
•recommending, without prescribing, the reading of it — one, in
short, who has laid any other restriction on this right, or
rather this duty, unless it be the obligation of reading it with
attention and respect. No, no ; let us have no more of those
•vain reasons in which you do not yourself believe. The true,
the only reason is, that you are afraid of the Bible."

" Afraid I My God I " exclaimed Bridaine, " am I afraid
of Thy Word!"

" As a Christian," said Habaut, " certainly not. I know
well that you love the Bible. I know with what admirable

Jl'CE BEFOEE THE HEVOLUTtOS.'

warmth you set forth its doctrines. But it is one thing t
speak of It in the pulpit, aad another to put it into the hand* I
of the members of your fiock. In the pulpit, when you c
quote it in support of your aeRertions, you do so ; when yoill
oannot, you do without it, hut you do not go bo far aa to alloirl
that you cannot. Your hearers, who have contideQce in yon,
always suppose that you can. Never having seen the whole
book, they imagine it to contain, in the clearest manner, all
that you teaofa them ; they cannot have auy idea that these
things do not occupy m it a place proportionate to that which
they have in your Church. This is the error that the most
sincere amongst you are oibhged not to overthrow. This ifl
why all priests, even those the most inclined to love, to quote
the Bible, and to communicate every page of it gradually to
their parishioners, are yet necessarily afraid of putting it as a
whole into their hands. They are aware that they will not
find it such as they must have imagined it, according to the
teaching and the practice of the Church ; they are afwid of
that which the most submissive of their people, if they b
reflect, must find wanting there. — But, for the last time, let %
proceed. I ask for no reply, no justification. We are not yop
judges. God will judge, as you said just now. Let u

" Here is half a page entirely ille^ble. It was St. Fanli
speech before the Areopagus. Shall we take it elsewhere ?J

" No. I have said that it is from these leaves that I me^
to take my text."

" But there is nothing more — ah 1 here is one n
' God hath appointed a day, in the which he will judge 1
world in righteousness.' "

"We have it I" cried the missionary. "This sums \
admirably what I have to say to these great lords s
ladies, who, I am told, promise themselves so much plea

PRIESTS, INHDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 23

from hearing me ! I want to show them, at least once, under
its most terrible aspect, that religion which they make to
^mselves, or which is made for them, so complaisant, so
easy, so accommodating. I hesitated ; I asked myself whe-
ther I should not do better to avoid this exposure. But no—
I am decided now. It is the will of God. It is He who has
spc^en to me by this leaf.''

" Right, quite right, brother," said Eabaut ; '* I like to
see Ihis confidence and enthusiasm. What should we poor
labourers for the Lord do, if we did not feel ourselves some-
times under His immediate direction ? Go— speak. It is He
who sends you to that crowd of brilliant sinners."

^' Perhaps. But He has sent so many to them, and so many
have failed I "

" What I already discouraged ! "

** No. But every time I ascend the pulpit, I cannot help
asking myself what will be left in a week, a month, in a few
hours, of the sermon about to be heard ? after all, what am I
going to do but increase the guilt of the greatest part of my
hearers? They know all that I am going to say to them.
They have been reproached a thousand times with what I
am going to reproach them with. They have promised a
thousand times all that I am going to make them promise.
Oh ! what a lamentable farce is that, where it is God whom
men try to deceive I "

** Alas I " said the minister, " how often have I said the
same thing to myself 1 True, I am less exposed than you to
have people come to me for form's sake. I preach only to
those who have to brave cold, heat, rain, snow, distance, be-
sides our ordinary dangers, in order to hear me. If all these
sacrifices did not prepare the heart for religious impressions,
at least it would be natural to wish to benefit by a sermon so
dearly bought. Unhappily, in the country as in the town,

34 ntAKCE BEFOBB THX SeTOLtmoM.

\iiider the vault of heaven or beneath the roof of yonr tfimpletf "1
man is ulwuys, and has alwaya been, itfter all, the same, t
too have often asked myself whether I ought not to fear, that
in preaching to thoKe who listened unprofitably, or not at all,
T might aggravate their reHponeibility beforn God. What is ,
to be done ? mnst we give up preaching the gospel ? must W*- j
RO soften it down, that people who disobey it shall be ae littto'^
fjuilty as possible ? God forbid I And yet I think that thers
is A way of respecting your observation; I think that thi
preacher, without weakening any of the injnnctiona or t'
threntenings of the Word of God, may and ought to avoid t
too frequent nee of those which he positively knows wil! n
be sufficiently respected by his hearers. It is a kind c
charity, which, like every other, may degenerate into weak*^
ness, but which ought not to be excluded on that a
I do not like that death, judgment, and hell, should be bro
forward on every occasion,

I would willingly say with Horace ; not bnt that the thougfcl
of God and eternity should breathe through the moat inBigni^
ficant of our words. Let it continually soar above our audi-
ences, always high enough that they may not become too
familiar with the sacred fear that attends it. F
general, who would hring forward on every occasion his whohf'
army. Nothing tends more to miccesa than to know how
use, at all times, the right amount of ardour and power."

" That precept is less true, however," observed BridairiflJ'
" in religion than in rhetoric. According to sound theology,
there are no Httle sms. All are displeasing to God, if not
equally so, at least so aa thut a real ChriBtian can never sayi-
' This is a sin from which it is not worth while ahiitainingi
But although real Chrietians do not say so, false ones, who

3

PKIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 25

&e most numeroiis, are very mnch inclined to say it. If they
oome to perceive that we reserve the threatenings of Gkxl for
uns manifestly weighty, will they not feel themselves more
and more authorized to believe that there are light sins, which
you know leads at once to the conclusion that they may be
committed with impunity?"

^* The observation is just," said Babaut. ^^ I might even
add, that from your lips it astonishes me ; and that this is
another point on which you are, imconsciously, superior to
your Church. There can be nothing less Christian, you say,
than ihe division of sins into weighty and light ; yet in reality,
what is it but your division into 'venial and mortal f Be that
as it may, to return to your idea, I think that in certain cases,
there would indeed be great danger in manifesting the inten->
tion of letting the great terrors of the Gk)8pel lie dormant.
But it is quite another thing to soften or veil them, in a word,
to be unfaithful as a minister, or to scatter them profusely, at
the risk of leading people at last to pay no attention to them.
A preacher who can never speak without having recourse to
great arguments, is like a waggoner in the mire, who invokes
the gods, instead of disengaging his wheels ; or, again, if you
will, like one who cannot hold his whip in his hand without
cracking it perpetually, so that his horse at last pays no atten-
tion to it. Once you have entered on this road, there is no
stopping. It is only by dint of the most violent efforts that
you can obtain now and then some attention or effect. Then
these powerful resources that have been so miserably worn out,
must acquire novelty from pompous language ; and the little
true greatness that might have been left them, will be completely
taken from them by this mixture of what is merely human."

" I think, indeed," added Bridaine, "that when we com-
plain of the little impression produced by the grandest ideas,
we ought often to begin ])j examining whether it is not mor^

FKANca BEFORE THE REVOLL'l'lUlir

or less OUT own fault. A cook — forgive the comparison,
may take its place with that of the waggoner — a cook, ]
aay, who should see the moat delicate or the most ordinat
dishes received with indifference, would, doubtless, haye r
Ron to complain of the guests at table ; but he would be v
wrong at the same time, in mipposing himself to have nothing'
to do with the matter, and in not inquiring by what he him-
Belf might have contributed to the want of BuccesB of which he
complains. To return to ourselves : nothing, I think, could «
be more instructive than an inquiry of this kind ; it would h
a new, interesting, and eminently practical way of studyi
pulpit eloquence."

" I understand you," said the minietcr. " A conBcientiooB 1
preacher cannot but have sometimes followed instinctively tha J
steps that you point out ; hut this study would be improved 1^1
being more advised and regular. Instead of proceeding, i
nsual, from the rules to their application, we should proces
&om the application to the rules ; instead of inquiring whafe^
must be done, we should analyse what we have done ; in
short, instead of descanting upon the results to be obtained,
we should examine into the results obtained, and from what
is wanting in them, we should see what was faulty in
methods used. It would he the best means of having ci
staatly before us, not a secondary and conventional ob
that of preaching sermons more or less according to rule, i
or less eloquent, but the true, the only object, that of instruot
ing and regenerating. Let ua not ask : ' What must I s
to them in order to convince them ?' but, ' What ought to b
said to me in order to convince me, myself?' The 1
preacher sees himself, as it were, seated amidst the audienoe
To him, the chief sinner to be condemned, is himself;
chief infidel to combat, is himself. This position is, I knoiTj, J
difficult to take, and difficult to keep."

¥9i£8TS, INFIDEL8| AND HUGUENOTS. 27

^ Almost impoBsible/' added the missionary ; ^^ and that is
one of my chief causes of humiliation, when I examine myself
before Gk)d« How many times has it not happened to me, after
a long and vehement sermon, to perceive that I had taken
nothing to myself — that I had not even thought of taking
anything I How often have I not even observed this very
lorgetfulness I And should we be surprised, after that, if
others leave the church as we leave the pulpit ? Always the
mote and the beam, alas I We complain that we are not
listened to, and we do not listen to ourselves I ''

" Or we listen to ourselves too much."

^^ It is quite the same thing, for forgetfulness of the matter
is connected with the worship of the manner. Here, assuredly,
all is not our fault. However able or pious we may be, we
must think more or less of words and phrases ; if we extempo-
me, we must seek them ; if we recite, we must call them to
mind. But what preacher can boast of never having given to
the manner more than the strictly necessary attention ? Who
will pretend that he has never watched the worldly and
human efifect of his periods, in the eyes and motions of his
hearers ? Ah I we say often enough in theory, that the salva-
tion of souls is what we must desire above all ; but, even
amongst those who do desire it above all, can you find me one
who has not often been fax more preoccupied about the human
success than the spiritual result — more concerned about the fail-
ure of a single sermon than the uselessness of twenty others ?"

" Grentlemen," said Gebelin, " take courage ; these are
matters in which he who feels his weakness is, on that very
accoimt, already strong. Socrates was right in believing that
he had made great progress when he had come to know that
he knew nothing. What he said of human wisdom, the gos-
pel authorizes us to say of Divine. Christian perfection, in all
things, is less the being perfect than the feeling thoroughly

that we are not so. Ab for me, if I did not know you to be
the most worthy to speak in the name of God in our day, whal
I have just heard would have been sufBcient to
of it."

" Enough 1" thoy both esclaimed.

"Enough!" repeated the minister. Since, acoording to
you, our humility constitutes our merit, do not take it from
by praises, on which our poor hearts would be bat too much
inclined to feed. Let us rather continue our reacimg. You
have a text ; it is my turn now."

" Your turn ?" said the missionary, in astonishment.

" Yes ; I must have one, too. I have read for you ; now
read for me."

"Shall we argue?"

"Why not?"

" Because we have only argued too much already."

" Are we not as good friends as before ?"

" You hope ? I am sure of it."

Bridaine took another sheet, and read : —

" ' But go ye rather to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.
And as ye go, preach, saying. The kingdom of heaven is &!•
hand. Heal the sick, cleanse the lepers, raise the dead, cast
out devils : &eely ye have received, freely give.' "

He stopped, and smiled. " If I had not picked u
leaves myself," said Bridaine, " I should think that you ha4(
chosen them."

" Have we, then, such need to choose," said Gebelin, "
order to light upon things that your Church would prefepJ
forgetting?"

" Come," resumed he, " I expect a storm."

" It will not be too rough," said Eahaut ; " you are t
well prepared for it. I see well enough by your countenanca

PBIE8TS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 39

that yon are not much of a partisan of the fiscal system of
Eome, and that you do not like to sell where the Master has
said, ' Give/ "

"Yes; I confess, if I had to order reforms, I think I
should begin there ; for there is nothing which does more
harm to religion, to priests'' —

" To priests, doubtless, but above all to religion. I do not
speak of the attacks that this system draws u|)on it from infi-
dels, mockers, and superficial men. As for such, either they
are allowed to say what they like, or else they are made to
observe, that the priest must have something to live upon,
that if tiiey will pay nothing, they are at liberty, &c. But
there is something yet more serious ; it is the moral degrada-
tion of those who pay without complaining, and see no harm
in the custom of paying. One is amazed to see to what a de-
gree holy things may become a sort of merchandise in their
eyes, like any other ; but the final result of this perpetual pur-
chase, firom baptism to burial, from the confessional to pur-
gatory, is the opinion — ^you do not teach it, but it is not the
less deeply engraven on the hearts of multitudes — I say, the
opinion that salvation may be bought, and that, after all, it is
only necessary to pay well for it. I do not enter, you will
observe, on the subversive side of the question ; I do not say
that your priests secure to themselves, by this means, on the
whole, exorbitant revenues; I say, that of all the means
used to provide for the support of religious worship and its
ministers, this is the least compatible with the true interests of
religion, and the true dignity of the priesthood. The evil is
not the having had recourse to it at periods when it was per-
haps necessary, it is the not having given it up as soon as it
could be done, and wherever it could be done ; above all, it is
the not feeling, or the not appearing to feel, all that is vicious
and fatal in the system."

" I have BufBciently shown you that I feel it," eaid Bridaine.
" I proceed : — I

" ' Aiid whosoever shall not receive you, nor hear yaas 1
words, when ye depart out of that house or city, shake off the i
dust of your feet,

" ' Behold, I send you forth ae sheep in the midflt of widves :
be ye therefore' " —

" You do not stop ?" interrupted Eahaut. "If you knew how '
we love to read over and over again, in all our sufferings,
those words of the Saviour to His disciples ! How should we
not lay hold of all those sad prophecies over which He shed
the light of His grace, as so many appeals to oiur zeal, and si
much assistance in onr trials 1 ' I send you forth as sheep in
the midst of wolves ;' how often have I not said this ii
Master's name te those poor flocks, hidden amidst so many
adverBaries, to those poor pastors to whom I, their brother,
gave the impositioii of hands, and whom I sent forth to their
labours almost with the certainty of seniling them to death ! |
Listen to me; eighteen months hence, if I live, I shall have j
to officiate at one of these ceremonies ; I have another sheep J
to send forth amongst the wolves — it is my son I I shall {
preach that day ; this shall be my text."

They looked at each other. Both were affected ; Bridaine J
could scarcely restrain his tears.

" Give me my leaf^" resumed Rahaut. " Here is yours. I
TiU Monday, then."

" Will you hear rae again ? "

" Without doubt. And will you never hear me ?"

" I hear you ?"

"Why not?"

"When?"

" W^en I preach upon the test yon have given me."

FRIE8TS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 31

" I cannot say."

"But in that case"—

" God will provide. Farewell. I am going to see your
prisoner."

Rabaut went out, and shortly after Bridaine quitted
Gebelin.

32 FHANGE BEFORE THE BEVOLUTION.

CHAPTER 11.

Two or three days after this interview, had we been per-
mitted to penetrate into the petits appartements of the
ch&teau at Versailles, we should have found the same two
men whom we have already seen there, seated in the same
ann-chairs, one on each side of the same fireplace, towards
evening. As then, they had just returned from a walk in
the gardens ; as then, one of the two, to amuse the other,
had exhausted all with which court and town had supplied
him, in the way of anecdote, news, great or small scandal ;
as then, the one had been at last tired of listening, the other
of relating ; and ennui, after having followed them step by
step amidst the marvels of Le N6tre and Marigny, had
installed itseK under the roof of the palace before them.

The king, however, was even more melancholy, more
ennui/^, than usual. The Marchioness de Pompadour had
thought fit to celebrate her sudden return to favour by bril-
liant fetes. The chateau de Bellevue had been lighted up.
The old royal forests, so solitary and silent since the king's
taste for hunting had ceased, had been roused by the sound
of the horn, the baying of the hounds, and the bold gallop
of horses in paths overgrown with brushwood. But all these
sounds had re-echoed in vain in the monarch's desolate
heart. These days, so foil of excitement, had but deepened
the void there, and although he had reckoned but little on
a happier result, he had secretly groaned at feeling that it

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AMD HUGUENOTS. 3d

was SO. Thus in vain does the sick man say that he had no
£Edth in the efforts used to save him ; it is ever with painful
astonishment that he sees their uselessness manifested. In
this condition, when nothing can soothe his anguish, that
which increases it the most, is to think that there is a remedy
which he is obliged to forego. The king had experienced
this additional suffering for some days past.

The excitement of gambling had been from his childhood
one of the cravings of his incurable ennui ; this excitement
had become more and more active, just as the habitual
drunkard requires stronger and stronger liquors. For some
yeais past, heaps of louis alone could animate him sufficiently
to prevent his being as weary at the gaming table as else-
where. He often lost ; and as his dignity required, when chance
favoured him, that he should restore under another form all
that he might have gained, his money for play^ as it was called,
was one of the most important items in his private budget.

The Comptroller-general, M. de Silhouette, had just insist-
ed upon the suppression of this supply, either to lessen the
general expenses, or to sanction more important acts of
economy. The king had submitted, but he felt it painfully,
and more and more every day.

After having done his best to enliven him, Richelieu had
at last become silent and sulky. These were his usual tactics
in order to oblige the king to listen rather more to him, or to
force from him a consent to some new pleasure^ that is, some
new ennm. We have seen that this had succeeded the week
before in bringing the king once more under the old yoke of
the Marchioness. Indeed, on these occasions, it was always
the king who made the first advances.

" Richelieu,'' said he, " what are you thinking of?"

" I ? of nothing," said the Marshal. " I am too much
yoxur Majesty's servant not to do as you do always."

VOL. n. c

IBANCB BEFOKB THB KEVOLDTION.

"That i

■ Bpeci

. of flattery. WLen I

see ffll

commit some act of folly, must I sjiy to myself that I hartil
JHBt done the eame? But you are mistaken, Richelieu, I
was thinking of eoraething. Tell me, my lord governor of
Guyenne, is there wine fit to drink in that part of the conn-
tiy?"

It often happened that the poor king cut short his melai
choly thoughts, by turning them suddenly to a quarter whi(^
in truth had always sufBciently interested the Bourho
From father to son in that race, all were fond of eating i
drinking ; and it was not without reason that their ancesti
Henry IV., the man of " three talents," as the old song Bay%*
had reckoned, amongst the three, that of drinking deeply.
None of them, however, save the Regent, had carried it to
esceas ; but that which was not excess in them, would havg,
been sueh for many others, Louis XIV. at the height of fa
glory, and Louis XVI. surrounded by his jailers, alike c
formed to the hereditary requirements of this i
appetite.

The Duke was not, therefore, Burprised at this c
terpellation. The governors were accustomed to receiTM
inquiries as to the best produce of their provinces, and li
who arrived from Perigord, for instance, must hy no m
be ignorant of the stat* of the truffle crop.

Tnie, at that period the governor of Guyenne might e.
not have been informed on the subject of the wines grown i
his jurisdiction. We must say, to the shame of fashion, tl
it had not, up to that time, smiled upon the cheerful slopj
in the neighbourhood of Bordeaux. The king, and proba
no one at Versailles, had yet tasted their produc
not even ask, as we have seen, whether the wim
but if it was fit to drink.

Happily Richelieu, always on Ihe look-out for novelty |

Priests, ixftoels, and huguenots. 35

gastronomy, as well as in love affairs, had studied the ques-
tion somewhat deeply.

" Sire," said he, " they have what they call Sauterne, a
white wine, not equal to that of Montrachet, nor to those of
the vineyards of Burgundy, by any means, but which is not
however a bad wine. There is also a certain vin de Grave,
which tastes of flint like an old carabine. It is like Moselle
wine, but keeps better. They have, besides, in the Medoc
and the Bazadois, two or three kinds of red wine of which they
brag excessively. By their own account, they are nectar fit
for the gods ; and it is by no means the wine of Upper Bur-
gundy for all that 1 However, the flavour is not amiss, and
it has a sort of bitter, sharp taste, that is not unpleasant. As
for that, one might drink as much of it as one liked. It only
sets people to sleep, that's all."

" It sets them to sleep ?" said the king. " Order a cask."

" I shall write this very evening. Sire."

" By the way, they say that the Bordelese have a terrible
quarrel against you."

" Against me ? And for what reason ?"

" They speak of certain trees " —

" Have not they done with it yet ? What memories those
provincials have I "

'* What was it about those trees ? I do not quite re-
member."

" Some old elms. Sire, that were to be cut down to make
room for a magnificent theatre. The magistrates would not
consent ; and the citizens, to thwart me, joined chorus with
the magistrates ; it was time to have it settled. One fine
morning, the trees were found lying on the ground ; upon
which, as your Majesty may suppose, there was a great noise
made, but meanwhile, I had my ground, and the theatre is
being built. Have I not done them a service ?"

tG FSANCB BTSFOBB TSB SEYOLTTTION.

" Perhaps ; but they had, I think, a right to refuse ft i

" A ^yemor, Sire, is your representatiTe ; he is the ting.
" Have I right to cut down trees that do not belong to in

" You have the right of cutting off heads.'

" After senteDce pronounced."

" After and before,"

" Indeed ? tell that to the gentlemen of the Parliament."

" Faith 1 I would tell it to the face of those impudent
limbs of the law 1 What, Sire 1 are yon too going to persuade
j-onrBelf that your power has any limits ? Who established
these Parliaments ? In whose nante do they pass judgment?'
Are you not the au| reme, the only judge in France ? The^'
gentlemen are merely your councillors in matters of justice,
as your cotmcillors of state and your ministers are in matters
of administration. Are you bound by the decisions of your
ministera? Are you even obliged to consult them? No,
Sire, no ! Your power has no other limits than those you are
pleased to set to it. The laws, the statutes by which judg-
ment is given, have been made by yon and your predecessors.
You can modify, change, or abolish them ; they only exist by
you, as well as the bodies who put them into execution.
Take a piece of paper, write upon it — ' No more Parliaments.'
Sign it — and there will be no more Parliaments."

The old Duke would admit of no jesting upon the rights
of royalty ; in fact, history was on his side. The king was in
truth the supreme — the only judge. There was no limit to
his power, the origin of which might not be found on going
back in that power itself We still admire Louie IX. admi-
nistering juatice in person, under the oak at Vinceunes — was
he not exercising as a father, but nevertheless
the most terrible and absolute of all rights ?

i

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 37

Louis XV. liked well enough in theory these doctrines,
according to which there was no reason why a king of France
might not be, if he chose, a despot in the style of tiie Sultans.
In practice, he was afraid of them ; this weakness, joined to
a considerable share of good sense, enabled him to perceive
tlieir logical absurdity. It was only ten years later, when the
Parliaments constituted into a system their pretensions to be-
ing something in the state by themselves, that he ventured to
make a solemn s^peal to ancient facts and ancient principles.
On the 7th of December 1770, at Versailles, the whole Par-
liament of Paris being assembled by his order, in their red
gowns, in t^e Hall of the Guards, he arrived in all the bril-
liancy of royal majesty. The members of Parliament stand-
ing, and uncovered, were ready to listen in silence. ** Gentle-
men,'' said the chancellor Maupeou, *' his Majesty had reason
to believe that you would have received with submission a
law which contains the true principles, &c* Go back to the
institution of Parliaments — trace them in their progress ; you
will see that they hold their existence and their power from
kings, and that the fulness of that power always resides in
the hand that has conferred it. They are neither an ema-
nation from, nor a part of^ each other; the authority that
created them, circumscribed their power and fixed the matter
as well as the extent of their jurisdiction. Although in-
trusted with the application of the laws, it has not been con-
fided to you to extend or restrain their decisions. When the
legislator chooses to manifest his will, you are his organs,
and his goodness permits you to be his advisers ; there ends
your ministry. The king weighs your observations — he

* The edict, which the Parliament had reAiaed to register, contained three principal
articles: 1. A prohibition to the Parliaments to consider thonselTes as bound to each
other, and forming one body. 2. Prohibition to interfere in political aflhirs. 3. Prohip
Ution to supersede the execution of edicts* when, alter having heard their remonstrances,
(he king should adhere to hb first orders.

38 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

judges of the advantages or inconveniences of the law. If
he then commands, you owe him the most entire submission ;
if your rights extended further, you would no longer be his
officers, but his masters,'* &c.

This was severe, but strictly true. To support the contrary,
and yet give themselves out as the supporters of the ancient
monarchy, was — we beg pardon of these gentlemen — a lie.
But how can we be astonished that these gentlemen were not
on the side of the old doctrines, when the king himself did
not dare to be so ?

" Well said, Kichelieu I " said he. " Your late grand-uncle,
the cardinal, could not have spoken better ; but we are a
hundred and twenty years from his time, my poor friend."

" What if we were five hundred ?"

" You would be a hundred-fold more in the wrong, al-
though all the while in the right."

" What matter to them, after all, whether you are all-
powerful or not, provided you only desire to do good, and keep
up some forms?"

" You kept them up very well indeed ; you, my represen-
tative, as you say, in the matter of the trees at Bordeaux I
You have perhaps made me more enemies down there than
the cardinal made for Louis XIII. by beheading a Mont-
morency. Abuse of power in small things, even more than
in great, contributes to alienate the multitude from us, yon
may be sure ; besides, we are not now in times when, provided
the king was good-natured, no one was disposed to trouble
himself whether he had the power of being otherwise. People
require securities, guarantees."

"And by what right do they require them?"

" You understand, my dear Duke, that I am not consti-
tuting myself the advocate either of my Parliaments or my
citizens. They require them — ^because they require them. I

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 39

do not say whether they are right or wrong ; I state the fact.
I repeat it ; they require guarantees. It is not sufficient for
them that I am good-natured, or even tolerably so ; they begin
to wish that I should not have it in my power to be the re-
verse. You know Quesnay, Madame de Pompadour's physi-
cian. It was remarked, and I had remarked it myself, that
he avoided my presence ; at last, the Marchioness made the
observation to him. * Madam,' said he, * I do not like to see
a man, who can by a word have my head cut ofif.' * Come 1 '
replied she, * the king is so kind I ' But he went away shak-
ing the head that I leave on his shoulders. * So kind — so
kind,' muttered he ; 'what does that prove?'"

" Impertinent fellow I" said Richelieu.

" Impertinent, if you like ; but the impertinent of this
description begin to be so numerous, that we shall one day be
obliged to reckon with them."

" I hope I shall not see it."

"Your children will — and the noble oaks of your own
park, Richelieu, may very possibly pay one day for the citizen
elms of the magistrates of Bordeaux."

" StiU those elms. Sire?"

" You will never guess what reminded me of them ; for
their story is rather an old one, and I confess that I had
entirely forgotten it. Do you remember the passage in which
Father Bridaine, the other day, gave such excellent receipts
for getting rid of all obstacles in the way of our salvation ?
' No reflections,' he said. * Lay hold of the axe, and let the
first stroke, if possible, be an irreparable one, in order to take
from you the idea of regretting the obstacle, and from your
enemies that of setting it up again.' Very good, I said in
my own mind ; that is characteristic I Such is by no means
your habit, I believe, in spiritual concerns ; but, however,
this axe, this irreparable blow struck at once, all that made

40 FRAKCB BEFOBF. THE RBTOLCTION.

me think of your freak in Guyenne — ^more, I confess, than I
I ought to have thought of it during a aeriDoii."

" Poor preachere I whilHt they are taking such pains tn argue
powerfijily, and persuade people, they little tliink of al! the
idfeae more or less absnrd that they can conjure up, as they
g;o on, for which theirs will be set aside."

" In fact," said the king, " it is not the first time that I
have caught myself, during a sermon, a hundred leagues off
from the preacher, the church, and al! around me. When I
retraced my steps, I had still to amuse myself with marking
the series of leapj by which my thoughts had bounded over
space. To prevent these wanderings of the mind is, I think^
one of the greatest, hut likewise the most difficult and rarest
triumphs of the orator. There are preachere to whom I Kfco
to play the trick privately of not following them, and letting
them struggle on unheeded. There are others, on the con*
trary, whom I reproach myself afterwards with not having
followed more attentively. Father Bridaine is of that num-
her. He decidedly pleased me, I should like to hear him
again, hut how ? I cannot make him preach at Court. It
would be an insult to the Marchioness, the Abbe de Namiers,
his uncle, all their friends, and in some measure to my

" Let us go and hear him incognito at Paris."

" At Paris ? You cannot think of it. I never went the^
incognito in my life, but to the hulls at the opera."

" Wei! I when— but I beg your pardon. I thmk I wai
going' to say something foolish."

" It seems that I must have done so."

" Your Majesty ?"

" Yes, indeed 1 Are we not agreed that you are too i
my servant ever to do but what you have seen me do ?"

" Your Majesty's memory is good " —

" And my scent quick, is it not? ' When the devil gre#

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 41

old, he became a hermit/ That is the end of your sentence
— confess it."

" It is very certain that if people knew — ^that " —

" That the hermit of the Parc-aux-Cerfi "—

" Went to Pans incognito, they would never guess that it
was to hear a sermon."

" Come what will, I shall go."

" We shall go, then. And here is, I believe, the Mar-
chioness."

" At all events, do not tell her that I "

" No, Sire."

The king had been amused for a moment. He experienced
the vague relief of a sick person, who has passed an hour
without sufifering, and who, on awaking, finds the night
farther advanced than he had ventured to hope for.

Madame de Pompadour perceived this slight degree of
cheerfulness at a glance. Her task of amusing the king was
about to be rather less difficult for this evening at least.
Bichelieu received for his share of trouble a slight look of
thanks. She had, besides, an ample provision of anecdotes*
There was enough to last half an hour, and she told them
remarkably well.

First, the Abb6 Coquet, a good old priest, had been arrested
by a town officer, who had heard it said that the Ahhi Coquet
must be seized — a very bad novel which was selling under
the rose.

Next came a village cur^, preaching upon sudden death,
and exclaiming, " What then must we all come to I We go
to bed in good health, and we rise in the morning stone dead."

Then an old councillor, M. d'Herbaut, writing to one of
his friends, that he has just bought an estate, and adding
that there is a chapel, " where my wife and I intend to be
buried, if God spare our lives."

42 PRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

Afterwards, M. de Zurlauben, a dull learned man, that
Mademoiselle de Lussan had described, it was said, as " an
immense library, of which the librarian was a fool."

Then the Chevalier de Florian, who, on going to see the
wainscotings that were putting up at the Palais Eoyal, had
so thoroughly squeezed in his finger at a knot in the wood,
that it had been caught. His deliverance had cost an hour's
labour, to the great entertainment of the Duke of Orleans
and his court.

Next, the Duchess of Orleans had put a gauze cap on the
head of the old Baron of Estelan, who had fallen asleep in
her drawing-room, and allowed him to go to the theatre in
this pretty accoutrement.

The Princess de Carignan, who in a large party had felt
one of her moleskin eyebrows coming off, and had fastened
it on again — ^the points upwards, which made a moustache
of it.

" But speaking of Mademoiselle de Carignan," said the
Marchioness, " does your Majesty know what has happened
to poor d'Orbigny, her ^ro%e?"

" D'Orbigny ? I saw him yesterday," said the king.

" For the last time, perhaps."

"Indeed I"

" He has been almost crushed to death in the Eue St.
Denis, by one of those new carriages. You know" —

« A cabriolet?"

" Yes ; for the name is beginning to take, and it is correct,
I assure you. There is nothing to be seen in the streets of
Paris but these jumping machines. Pedestrians do not know
what will become of them."

" Have any other people been hurt?" inquired the king.

"Several," said Eichelieu, "but only commoners. This
time it is a nobleman."

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 43

• "HI was the head of the police," said the king, " I should
forbid these cabriolets.''

Was he jesting ? No. It happened to him every day to
say, if he was such or such a one, he would do such and such
a thing. But the courtiers took care not to notice these
strange sallies. They would have seemed to remark his
indolence too evidently.

" M. de Sartine," said Richelieu, " is pretty well employed
at this moment. Pick-pockets abound ; the convulsionaries
are beginning to perform miracles again ; the actresses are
so insolent, that one or the other has to be sent every day to
the For-rEveque."

" Yes," said the king, " and scarcely has the For-FEv^que
closed upon tiiem, when your finest equipages, gentlemen,
are to be seen arriving at the gate ; and the lieutenant of
police has more trouble in refusing your solicitations for these
fine ladies, than in watching all the pick-pockets and con-
vulsionaries of Paris."

" Without us, what would become of the theatre ?"

" Oh I do as you like, do as you like ; it is well for those
who can."

" Sire," said the Marchioness, " it is very long, I think,
since we have acted anything for you. What would you say
to a little representation at Bellevue?"

" In the month of July ?"

" Why not ? We could have a pretty little theatre erected
in the open air. We should have little company, but very
select ; few musicians, but good ones. We should act some
nice little piece, Le Devin de Village^ for instance, that you
used to like so much. I have been amusing myself the last
few days, by going over my part of former times ; I still know
it very well."

"Do you think so?"

44 FRANCE BEFORE THE REYOLUTIOX.

He smiled his most malicious smile. Her pari of former
times ! She got throngh it, in fsict, very well ; but the king
chose to show her that he was not her dupe.

*'^ Tes, indeed," resumed she, in a perfectly natural tone ;
'^ the music is so simple, so touching. Your Majesty had even
caught some of the airs."

Let it be remembered, that Louis XY. had, as Bousseau
says, the most discordant voice in his kingdom. He was per-
fectly aware of it, and to remind him that he had sung, was to
pay back his epigram in his own coin. He got out of it by
continuing to smile ; but all at once, with a more serious
countenance :

" When is this fi§te to be ?" said he.

" On Monday, Sire."

" Lnpossible I "

She looked at him with surprise, and as if expecting an
explanation, at least an excuse ; but she received neither.

" On Tuesday, then," resumed she, partly offended and
partly intimidated.

" On Tuesday."

He did not hope to conceal his journey to Paris from her,
but at least he did not wish her to know it beforehand. All he
desired was to excite her curiosity ; it was one of his whims
to puzzle those about him.

But when remembering Bridaine, he called to mind the
other person from whom he had received, on the same day and
at the same moment, a certain paper that he had not seen
again. Not that he usually troubled himself much about the
fate of the petitions which he made over to the first lord in
waiting : chance alone— perhaps also the appearance of the
unknown petitioner, had helped him to remember Babaut.

" What is become of the second petition of Sunday ?" said
he.

PRIE8T8, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 45

^' It is not lost, Sire ; but it relates to business of Bucb a
serious nature" —

" Very good ; you can speak to me of it another time."

'* Besides, before speaking of it to your Majesty, I thought
it right to send for the author, and to collect" —

" Very good I — ^very good I"

" Only one word more ; did your Majesty remark the per-
son who presented it?"

" Yes, rather. Who is he ?"

" Ah I Sire, you may guess a thousand times without find-
ing out. It was Rabaut I"

" Rabaut I— who is Rabaut ?"

" Why, Rabaut the preacher— the pope of the Huguenots
in France I Rabaut, who gave me more work to do in my
government of Languedoc than all the Huguenots together ;
Rabaut, against whom your soldiers have been for more than
twenty years in the field I"

" Possibly — ^but this is the first time that I have heard the
name."

" Why, all France knows it."

" Possibly, I repeat. Is that the only thing," added he
sorrowfully, " that I alone am ignorant of?"

He was silent for a moment, as if meditating upon the
reproach that he had just addressed to himself. It was a
reproach indeed, and a most serious one. No one, evidently,
could have intentionally concealed from him a name so gene-
rally known ; it wais, then, to his own absolute indifference
alone that his ignorance of the fact up to the present time
mi^t be attributed. " It was, then, that Rabaut," resumed
he ; " he has some courage, truly. Is there not a penalty of
death against these preachers ?"

" Doubtless, as your Majesty has confirmed the decrees of
the late king."

46 PRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

" Yes, I recollect — I have signed so many on this subject.*
What sort of man is he ?"

" A man who must be seen in order to form any idea of
him; a soul of iron in a frame apparently feeble, but in
reality also of iron ; a strange mixture of humility in all that
regards him personally, and of pride if his faith is concerned."

" You have seen him, then?"

" This very day I"

" And where did you find him ? for I suppose he went off
at once."

" On the contrary. Sire, he had given his name and
address."

" Smgulax man I I should like to see him."

" It is easily done. Sire ; he is in my apartments."

" In your apartments I — ^here, at the chateau ? Is he not
afraid?"

" Of what, Sire ? By giving his name, he trusts himself to
your honour — and mine. It is a truce. When he returns to
his mountains, then let the chase begin agam. I thmk, to
say the truth, that he never will be taken ; he is so protected,
so watched over by those people, that he could only fall into
our hands by the greatest chance. Would it be very fortu-
nate ? — ^I doubt it. In the first place, despite of the gallows,
the number of preachers has increased ; it is said that there
are sixty, and much too well organized to be thrown into any
confusion by the death of their leader ; it would only inflame
their zeal. Besides, I could not answer for it, that a general
rising would not break out in the province, and you know
what it cost to re-establish peace there during the last years
of the late king. When I governed Languedoc, I did every-

* A pamphlet in 1736 contained a catalogue of writings supposed to be published by an
editor at Utrecht, and amongst them one entitled. " Treatise on Silence and Timidity, with
notes on Indolence, and the way of signing one's name without knowing wherefore, by
8. M. T. 0."— iSa Majesty trds Chrdtienne.)

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS, 47

thing to lay hold of him, though I could not conceal from
myself that I should perhaps be sorry to have taken him. I
knew that every time an attempt at a rising was put down by
his interference, their animosity was only adjourned to the
moment when he himself should be taken. There is, as it
were, on this point a tacit agreement, which has something
alarming in it.''

" Certainly," said the king ; " and if the offer was made to
him, to allow him to leave the country without his property
being confiscated or his family disturbed?"

" The offer has been often enough made. Even more ; we
have tried to force him to it. I devised the expedient of
arresting his wife and children at Nimes, and of making his
quitting the kingdom the condition of their liberation.* One
night, therefore, the house was surrounded by soldiers. Orders
had been given not to effect the arrest that night ; I thought
that fear would be sufficient. A door had therefore been left
open that the wife might escape ; but we soon saw that no-
thing could be gained with her or by her. She persisted in
remaining ; ' she wished,' said she, * to be arrested, that the
iniquity might be the more flagrant.' We were obliged to
turn her out, to make it appear that she had escaped. She
wandered for two years, I know not whither, enduring, with
her young children, every kind of fatigue and privation,
rather than induce her husband to leave France ; nor would
he himself have listened to such advice."

" What has become of her?" said the king; for in spite of
himself he took some interest in this obscure heroism of one
of his victims.

* Considering the kind of impossibility we find of arresting the ministers, who only
multiply in Languedoc, I am inclined to think that we could intimidate them, and even
dispene them, if their wives— persons to whom they are contracted in marriage, parents,
or other relations, were imprisoned.— Despatches of the Count of St. Florentin. May
28, 1750.

48 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

" She came back to Nimes at last, and has been let alone/*

"What a life," said the Marchioness, "is that of these
women — ^for they are almost all married, are they not?"

" Nearly all. They even marry in general rather early ;
they are said to find these unions, so surrounded by perils, a
source of perseverance and courage."

" That does not quite agree," observed the king, " with
what is said amongst us, that a married priest could not be a
man of devotedness."

" Bah 1" said Eichelieu, " do we fight the worse for having
a wife and children ? Our priests do not marry, because it
suits them to have no other interest in the world but that
of their caste. Very devoted men truly, are the bachelors
in gown and bands, who throng the toilets of our ladies!
People do me the honour. Sire, to lay to my account manjr
affairs of gallantry. I do not know but that there may be
some exaggeration in the matter ; but this I can say, that I
never set about anything in that line, without meeting more
than one abbe on my way."

" You are very severe, my lord Lovelace."

" Perhaps, but against whom ? I forgive with all my heart
the poor abbes who have nothing to do but to live on the pro-
duce of their benefices, for running after forbidden fruit ; what
makes me indignant, is, that the clergy should pretend, after
that, to have the monoply of virtue and morality. I do not
require them to be saints ; but then, at least, let them not pre-
tend to remain unmarried, in order to be so. If they will do
as other men, let them do it ; but let them not begin by de-
claring themselves quite set apart from others. I have seen
the clergy in England ; I have seen those of the Protestant
states of Germany. There, they tell you openly, in plain
biblical style: *It is not good for man to be alone.'* But

• Gen. ii. 18.

PRIE8T8, INFIDELS, AND HUGUEKOT8. 49

there, likewise, amongst so many thousand ecclesiastics, years
pass without a scandal being heard of ; and if people wish for
the pattern of a family both united and pure, they have but
to go to the house of the pastor."

**Well preached!" said the king. "I am inclined to
assemble all the gallant abbes of my kingdom, and to let them
have a course of instruction under you."

^' I am at your service. Sire. One thing alone troubles me."

"What?"

" Where to find a cathedral large enough to contain them ?"

The king laughed a great deal, but the Marchioness rather
less. We may imagine that she did not feel quite at ease
when such were the subjects of conversation. Formerly, the
king would have taken care not to pursue them ; but he
restrained himself much less since the ties that bound him to
her had become merely those of old habit.

" Do not say too much evil," resumed he, " of the abbes in
my kingdom. In the first place, the lower orders of the clergy
are much better ; then, see how things go on in Spain, Italy,
America, wherever the clergy are all-powerfiil. In the
Spanish Colonies, the excess of the evil has brought about a
sort of remedy ; that is to say, that many priests are seen to
have under their roof a woman whom they treat almost as a
wife, appearing in public with her, educating the children she
has given them; in fact, married, all but the ceremony.
This was, after all, what generally took place, but with much
more scandal, in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. When
Calvin and Luther attacked us on these points, they had but
to repeat what had been said long before in the bosom of the
Church, in pamphlets, in books, in sermons, everywhere. They
had but fair play, when they declaimed against the celibacy
of the priests, we must allow."

" Come, Sire," said Eichelieu, " this is a conversation some-

VOL. n. D

50 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

what redolent of heresy. If this same Rabaut heard us, he
would be very much tempted, I think, to ask us why we per-
secute him and his adherents, if we too know so well when the
opportunity offers how to differ from the Church. It is indeed
a question that I have often asked myself, above all, when I
commanded in Languedoc. * Here are poor people,' said I,
* who, in everything else, are examples to the country ; sober,
economical, hard-working ; despite of the disturbance we give
them, they have kept themselves much above the surrounding
population. The common police has almost nothing to do
with them ; it is a miracle when one of them is punished for
anything but his religion.' * Their whole crime,' as M.. de
Voltaire says, ' is to pray to God in bad French, instead of
praying in worse Latin.' And I — I who should have scarcely
anything to do in the province if it had been entirely inha-
bited by people as submissive and quiet as they — ^here am I,
tormenting them, tormenting myself to devise every day some
fresh harm to do to them, some new disquiet to give them !
What induces me to do it ? Do I hate them ? No. Do I
hate their doctrines ? I have been told to hate them, but I
have never examined them thoroughly, and to judge by their
effects, they do not seem very hateftd. Once more, I said to
myself what business have I to torment those people?"

" You had to put my edicts into execution," said the king.

" Oh ! Sire, that is not the question. Never were your
edicts better executed than in my time. The governor did
his duty rigidly ; the man asked himself privately, whether it
would not have been better had his duty been different."

" All this is very subtle, Richelieu," replied the king, rather
out of humour. "With such fine reasoning, people would
soon come neither to obey at all, nor to enforce obedience."

But the king's ill humour had in reality quite another cause
than the fear of not being obeyed. He, too, had just been

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 51

asking himself vaguely, why he persecuted the Protestants ;
and whilst the Marshal could take refuge at least behind the
edicts which he only put into execution, the king felt himself
alone under the weight of an immense responsibility. It was
in vain that he said to himself that he had found the system
established — that he had only followed up the errors of his
predecessor. Forty years of persecution, without having
inquired wherefore, was, of all the weaknesses of his reign,
the most guilty and odious. The revocation of the Edict of
Nantes had, since the death of Louis XIV., lost all the gran-
deur which that prince had the art of giving to measures the
most iniquitous, and ideas the most erroneous. Louis XIV.
had believed in the possibility of re-establishing religious
unity in France ; he had willed it seriously, resolutely, and
obstinately.

What did Louis XV. desire ? He himself had never known.
He had allowed himself to be led, when a man as well as when
a child, in the sanguinary and beaten track marked out by
his great-grandfather. Besides, when Louis XIV. began to
persecute the Protestants, he was beginning at the same time
to become a good Romanist ; he was giving up his excesses ;
he had married Madame de Maintenon ; he was about to give
to religion, or to what he believed to be religion, a large place
in his life. It was in the midst of indifference and de-
bauchery that Louis XV. had outdone the great king in
cruelty. His hand was weary of signing — even without read-
ing them — those edicts which blind obedience was to tran-
scribe in letters of fire and blood, even to the very extremities
of the kingdom.

52 FBANGE BEFORE THE BETOLUTION.

CHAPTER III.

Such were the sad reflections the king had just made
upon his own conduct. Had he been a man to take a good
resolution promptly, that, at least, of inquiring seriously into
the state of things, the cause of the Protestants would have
been gained. He would have entered, of his own accord,
attended by their blessings, on that course of toleration into
which, ten years later, he allowed himself to be drawn slowly,
unwillingly, still from weakness, from weariness rather than
from humanity or reason, and without carrying to the grave
the gratitude of any one.

After rather a long silence, "Richelieu," said he, "I wish
to see this man. Gto and bring him to me."

" What, Sire I " said the Marchioness, " are you in ear-
nest?"

" Yes."

" Does your Majesty think of granting them their re-
quests?"

" I do not know. What do you think ?"

" Ah, Sire, it would be one of the proudest days of your
reign."

He looked at her with surprise. Nothing, up to that time,
had led him to anticipate such language. Not but that she
had sometimes reflected on the misfortunes of the French
Protestants. But if she thought of them, she thought also,
and chiefly, of herself; she would therefore have taken care

PRIESTS, INnDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 53

not to enter upon the question so long as she did not clearly
see the honour or profit to be drawn from it. Secretly ad-
mitting the liberal doctrines of the day, she wished for nothing
better than to give her name to some one of those reforms
to which the philosophers promised their incense ; and she
would have been doubly flattered to receive, with the praises
of infidels, the blessings of men persecuted for their faith.
Add to this, the desire to be avenged of the clergy, by whom
she considered herself as persecuted, and to whom she knew
that nothing would be more painful than the mitigation of
these severities. She repented, however, having allowed her
intention of thus acting to be too visible. The king continued to
look at her fixedly, without saying a word — evidently he dis-
trusted her, and himself still more. Because he had suffered
edicts of persecution to be dictated to' him, he would not allow
an edict of toleration to be dictated to him. When a weak
man takes it into his head to be firm, it very rarely happens
at the right moment.

" Richelieu," resumed he, " go and bring me that man. I
intend that he shall hear from my own mouth " —

The king's tone had entirely changed. Richelieu, who was '
on the point of going out, could not help turning round at
these last words.

" Yes, from my own mouth," repeated he, " that there is
neither pardon nor peace to be expected for him and those
like him. Ah I do you think you will always lead me ? Do
you think that I shall be made to give the spectacle to the
public of a king undoing what he has done, contradicting
what he has said, giving back with one hand what he has
taken away with the other? No, by God, no! No more
heretics in France ! One king, one people, one religion I Go,
Richelieu. — Well, Madam, did I tell you to go away?"

" I am not wanted, Sire."

54 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

"Kemain. You have seen me often enough weak and a
slave ; are you afraid to see me as a king?"

She sat down again, and was silent. We have already said,
that Louis XV. was not wanting in majesty ; but he never
should have taken time to prepare to assume it, for in that
case it vanished. Under the air of ill- temper rather than of
majesty, with which he paced the room while waiting for the
minister, Madame de Pompadour easily perceived the begin-
ning of that embarrassment which she had always seen on
similar occasions, and which betrayed itself besides, by a curi-
ous enough sign — a tremulous motion of the chin. Evidently
he repented that he had sent for Kabaut. He did not feel
strength enough to face a man whom his edicts condemned
to the scaffold ; he felt the superiority which the courageous
victim always has over his tyrant.

It was not, however, without strong emotion that Eabaut
walked towards the king's apartment, preceded by the Mar-
shal. What did that master want with him, whose words
had as yet never reached him and his brethren but as the
breath of persecution and death ? Kichelieu had refused to
give him any particulars. The king had appeared to him so
agitated, so undecided, in reality, even while he tried to
assume the appearance of decision, that he felt he ought to
avoid alarming Kabaut by vain fears, or deceiving him by
vain hopes. The king had seated himself. The Marchioness,
at some distance, was reading, or pretending to read. The
step of the Marshal was already heard in the ante-chamber.

" Oh I " said the king, " he will speak to me of his petition,
and I have not read it."

" I shall come to vour assistance," said the Marchioness,

" But you have not read it either."

" Never mind."

Thus did the majesty so vaunted vanish completely. The

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 55

actor called for his prompter again. The royal puppet him-
self helped to tie the strings again that were to put him into
motion.

They entered.

" Sire," said Kichelieu, " this is the person who had the
honour of presenting a petition to your Majesty last Sunday."

Rabaut bowed, first to the king, then to the Marchioness.
At this second bow, she coloured. Richelieu clenched his
hands, and cast upon him obliquely one of those looks which
seemed to say, " Are you mad ?" The poor minister, in fact,
had imagined he was bowing to the queen. He knew, as
well as everybody else, what were the king's morals ; but in
his simplicity, as an honest man and a provincial, he never
would have gone so far as to imagine him seated beside his
mistress in the presence of a stranger. He had soon recovered
his modest self-possession. He waited respectfully till the
king should question him.

" You have, of course, been told," said the king at length,
" why you were called hither."

"No, Sire!"

" Your Majesty did not order me to do so," said the Mar-
shal.

" Has your Majesty," resumed Rabaut, " deigned to take
notice of the petition that I had the honour to present to
you?"

" Sir," said the Marchioness, with vivacity, " you are not
aware, doubtless, that the king cannot be questioned."

" I was not aware of it. Madam. But my question. Sire,
was not one. By granting me this audience — that I could
not have ventured to hope for — your Majesty proves to me
that you have read my petition."

" Sir," said the king, " there is no explanation to be given
to you — no more than an audience is granted you. I heard,

56 FRANCE BEFOBE THE REVOLUTION.

by chance, that you were in my palace. I desired, that on
returning to your fellow-religionists — for my clemency will
permit you to return thither — you might put a stop to those
false rumours of toleration that are circulated to keep up their
fervour. Expect nothing — hope for nothing. New edicts, if
necessary, will be added to those that you teach them to
violate. Let them renounce a resistance which will be
henceforward useless, endless, and aimless. Out of the
Church there is no peace, no safety for them either in this
world or in the next."

Kabaut, at the first words, had raised his head. Astonish-
ment at the beginning, then indignation and disdain, scarcely
tempered by a careless respect, were depicted on his counte-
nance. The tone of the king, at first serious and noble, had
at the conclusion become that of a man who strives hard ta
speak loud, and is the first to be afraid of the noise he makes.
He stopped ; Rabaut remained motionless. An instant, which
seemed dreadfully long to the king, passed in the deepest
silence.

" Sir, you have heard the king's orders," said Madame de
Pompadour at length.

" Yes, Madam ; and I still ask myself if I have heard cor-
rectly. Your Majesty" —

" That lady is not the queen," said Louis XV. hastily —
for it was to the Marchioness that Rabaut had said your
Majesty.

This incident completed the king's annoyance. Discon-
certed likewise, but to the shame of him who had given
occasion for such a mistake, Rabaut turned towards him,
with downcast eyes, and without adding a word. Then, as
the king did not dismiss him —

" Speak," said Richelieu. " His Majesty has perhaps a
moment more to give you."

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 57

" Sire," said he slowly ; " it will be brief. * It is better
to obey Qod than man.' "*

He bowed once more, but to the king only, and with-
drew.

" Ha I ha I " cried the Marshal, with one of his loudest
laughs. " Just like them I Tell them what you will, they
will cast a verse of the Bible in your teeth — for I think it
was one — and turn on their heel. Extraordinary people,
faith I for such as your Majesty has seen him, such he will
be seen, if he is taken, at the foot of the gallows. Tliere was
one, however, who faltered in the face of death. He was a
man named MoUnes^ of Nimes, sumamed Flechier, because his
discourses, it appears, were in the taste of the late academi-
cian. The night before execution, the fine speaker trembled.
He offered to become a Catholic. It was accepted ; the con-
quest was boasted of — and, behold, the villain is in Holland,
a greater Protestant than ever.'^

" And is he the only one who has fallen ?" said the king.

" Duperron, at Grenoble, in 1745, is mentioned ; but he died
shortly after in a state of fearfiil remorse. f Theirs is an un-
exampled obstinacy."

" Yes, Richelieu, I know an example of it."

"Which, Sire?"

♦ Acts ▼. 29.

i Molinei was still alive in 1778, but a prey to the remorse that had kifled Duperron.
One who knew him has left us some details respecting this long suffering : — " When I was
still Tery young, I remember to have seen him come many and many a time to my
father, who was pastor at Amsterdam, always accusing himself, whilst my father always
endeavoured to make him understand that, by the infinite merits of Jesus Christ, he
might hope for salvation, as well as any other penitent sinner. Never did he come to
our house, and sit down in silence, waiting till my father should come and repeat to him
for the hundredth time words of consolation, without my experiencing a sort of terror.
I described as wide a semicircle round him as the room would admit of, and. neverthe-
less, I never for an instant lost sight of him. He was so al»orbed in himself, that he took
no notice of anything else. Thirty years of repentance appeared to him but as one day,
Insuifictent to mourn over his crime." — M. Chatelain, " Feuille Religieuse du Canton de
Vaud. 1840."

58 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

" Our martyrs of the first centuries, wlio are now on our
altars, were quite as infatuated."

The king might have added, that the persecutions of the
first centuries, though much more cruel, without doubt, than
Voltaire pretended, never had either the length, or the
tenacity, or the odious refinements of those organized by
Eomanism.

" Yes," resumed he, " quite as infatuated were the men
who preferred suffering a thousand deaths to consenting — ^to
what? To very little, to a mere nothing — ^throwing a few
grains of incense into the fire, before the image of a god or
an emperor. And we admire them, Kichelieu ; and we are
right. And these men, because we believe them to be in
error, are they very different from the martyrs of old, before
Grod ? Are we much wiser than the heathen, because, instead
of attacking a new God, we persecute for two hundred years
past a new way of adoring the same God ?"

" Sire," said the Marshal, " allow me to give up all attempt
to follow you in the changes of opinion to which it appears
that your Majesty is inclined to yield. I confess that if I
were permitted to hold the opinions you have just expressed,
and were king, the Protestants in my dominions should soon
be at an end of their troubles. One would have said, indeed,
that your Majesty was quoting a page of the petition in ques-
tion, for all you have said is there, almost in the same terms."

" You must show me that petition."

" I have it at hand. Sire ; here it is."

" Well, read it to us. Marchioness."

She obeyed.

"*Sire, — One of our consolations in our miseries is the
thought that your Majesty is ignorant of them, that you are
deceived, at least as regards us, and that we may still love a
king who would love us, if he but knew us.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 59

" * But what means have we, Sire, of being known by your
Majesty ? Of the numerous petitions or memorials that we
have laid by various hands at the foot of your throne, we
have not heard that even one has been put before your
eyes/ "

" It is true," murmured the king.

" I beg your pardon. Sire," said Richelieu ; " I never
arrived from Languedoc at Court but my hands were full of
them ; and as I had promised to convey them to your Majesty,
I did so."

The king did not answer. He had not read them ; he
had not even looked to see what was the subject of them.
Madame de Pompadour proceeded.

" * Will this one have a happier fate ? It will be given to
you by one of the men who have the most audaciously braved
your laws. If he dares present himself before you, it is be-
cause he is conscious of having had all the respect for the
royal authority which it can require, without encroaching on
the authority of Grod.

" * It has been long out of the question for us to lay claim
either to privileges, or guarantees, or subsidies, or any of those
things which had been granted us in times of war and trouble.
We only ask to live in peace amongst your subjects, bearing,
as we already do, all the burdens of the State, without asking
for anything in return but liberty to serve God according to
our conscience.

" ' Such are the terms in which we wish that the question
should be presented to the mind, and, above all, the heart of
your Majesty. Everything, for a century past, proves to us
that we have no longer any real or irreconcilable enemies
but in the ranks of the clergy. Everywhere else the most
pious men are for toleration, some openly, others in their
hearts. We are persecuted (and your Majesty, we venture

60 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

to say, is no exception in this respect) — we are persecuted
much less from hatred' " —

" That is what you were saying, Kichelieu," interrupted
the king.

" Yes, Sire ; but I thought so long before reading that."
" I did not ; but they are right. Proceed.''
" ' — much less from hatred than from the old impulse of
hatred, from a mistrust which has long been without founda-
tion, from principles which are daily becoming more relaxed
on every other point, and which are only kept up in our case
in order not to appear to abandon them entirely. We can
understand that your Majesty, being attached to the doctrines
of the Church of Kome, should prefer having only the children
of the same Church for your subjects ; but we entreat you to
ask yourself whether the severity of the means employed in
your name is not out of proportion to the little antipathy that
you really feel towards us.

" * But we do not now come before you to make our apology.
We shall neither recall the part which we had in the events
that placed your House on the throne, nor the unshaken
fidelity that we have at all times borne to it, nor the dis-
tinguished men that we have had the honour of giving to
France. We will not enter upon any discussion of the
motives that make us adhere to the religion of our fathers,
nor of the right which is supposed to exist to make us aban-
don it. We will only lay before you, as briefly as possible,
a summary of the laws that oppress us. We are persuaded
that your Majesty has never considered them as a whole, and
that you would have turned away with horror from an edifice
so monstrously cruel.

" * In the first place, if we examine its basis, we see that
for forty-five years it rests upon a fact manifestly false.
Louis XIV., shortly before his death, believed he might

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 61

affirm that there were no more Protestants in France. " Their
presence in our dominions,^ ^ said he in his last declaration
against them, '* w a sufficient proof that they have embraced the
Catholic religion, without which they never woxdd have been
permitted to remain J^ Every one has long since agreed, Sire,
that your great-grandfather signed these words without having
read them. Whatever might have been his antipathy towards
us, however deceived he might have been as to the result of his
efforts, he had too much good sense to believe that we were
all converted,* and, above all, to see a proof of it in the single
feet of our remaining in France, since we were compelled not
to attempt to leave it on pain of the galleys.

" ' Be that as it may, such have been from that time the
grounds of all the measures decreed against us. In order to
destroy us without compunction, we were declared to be dead.
We were then no longer called Protestants, Huguenots, or
heretics, but new converts. From that moment, being reputed
Komanists, every act of Protestantism placed us under the
weight of the terrible penalties before decreed against whoso-
ever should return to the Protestant faith after having abjured
it. Up to that time, so long as there had been no formal ab-
juration, we could at least die in peace. Since the edict of
1715, all being supposed to have abjui-ed, none can refiise
the Popish sacraments on his deathbed, without being con-
sidered as relapsed. If he recovers his health, he goes to the
galleys ; if he dies, the sentence is executed upon his memory.
His property is confiscated, and his body dragged upon the
hurdles. Wo to the person who may have induced him at

* In 1698. thirteen years after the converaions by wholesale with which Lotiis XIY.
had been flattered, M. de Bftville, the governor, wrote — " There are districts of more thnn
twenty poridies where the priest is the most unhappy and the most useless inhabitant,
and where, whatever pains he may have taken, he has not succeeded in making one
Catholic, nor in settling one there fjrom other parts." — Quoted by M. de Breteuil, in
1786, in his Memorial to Louis XVI.

62 PRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

that solemn hour to listen to the dictates of his conscience I
K a man, his punishment is the galleys ; if a woman, seclusion
for life. In your armies, there is full liberty to be an infidel ;
but should a soldier die, declaring himself a Protestant, as has
occurred at Uzes, it is instantly decreed that sentence be passed
upon his memory. And this decision is not, as might be sup-
posed, that of some obscure provincial tribunal, or of some harsh
magistrate — it is the sentence of your council of state.

" ' False as to facts, cruel as to consequences, the allegation
of the last edict of Louis XIV. did not even agree with the
former edicts. The Parliament of Paris remarked it; the
registering of the edict was suspended for a month. " The
king,^' said the attorney-general,* " has never precisely ordered
the religionists to become Catholics; it cannot therefore be
said that this change need be presumed. All the rigour of
the law has fallen upon the relapsed — ^that is to say, upon
those who, after having abjured, have fallen back into their
errors ; but in that case, it must necessarily be proved that
they have come out of them, because in order to fallf they
must once have been raised. It will always be hard to be-
lieve that a man who seems never to have been converted,
should, nevertheless, have fallen hack into heresy, and that
he can be condemned, as if the fact were proved."

" ' Thus, in this famous edict, were trodden under foot, as
well the first niles of written law, and even those of good
sense, as the natural feelings.

*' ' These representations, however, either did not reach the
monarch, or could not modify the all-powerful influence under
which he had signed the edict. The plan of Father le Tellier
was to remain in full vigour. The edict was registered.
Those who had pointed out its defects were the first to put it
into execution.

* D'Aguesseao.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 63

" * Such, Sire, is the inheritance left you by your great-
grandfather.

" * By your edict of 1724, which your extreme youth at
that period authorizes us happily to consider as not being
your own work,* you declared your intention of confirming
all the laws previously made against us. You added, at the
same time, numerous clauses tending to establish them more
firmly. It is you. Sire, who have definitively established the
cruel code by which we find ourselves under restraint as re-
gards our faith, our temporal interests, and our family affec-
tions, in the most minute details of all that is precious or
sacred to us in this world.

" * We say, as regards our faith. You have been doubtless
allowed to believe, like the late king, that there was no
precise intention of putting violence on our consciences ; that
by these restraints we were only to be led to refiect on our
obduracy, and to return, of our own accord, to the pale of
the Church.

" * In fact, since the persecutions prior to the Edict of
Nantes, there has been no punishment laid upon the heretic
as such. Thus when we are visited, it is not as Protestants,
as professing erroneous doctrines, but as men disobeying your
decrees.

" * It is not, then, the Inquisition ; but, in reality, how little
does it differ from it I To punish us, not as heretics, but as
violating laws framed against us because we were such — is
it not one and the same thing ? We are not commanded to
believe, we are only required to make a profession of so doing.

* It was that of the Archbishop of Rouen, Lavergne de Tres«an. amisted— for the fact
is only too certain — ^by this nme d'Aguesseaa, who had become chancellor. Thus hard is
the heart that the Church of Rome makes for even the wisest and most virtuous of her
champions. It may be seen, in his Discours on the life of his father more particularly,
with what complacency he enlarges on the severities of which the latter, sub-governor of
Languedoc, had been the agent. He blames the dragonnadet, — but, excepting that, all
was lawful, great, and right

64 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

But, Sire, in all that affects the conscience, to exact an out-
ward profession is to do violence to conscience itself. Unless
you tell a dying man that he may lie to God and man, you
cannot order him to appear a Romanist without ordering him
by that very fact to be one. Is that a command which^your
Majesty feels you have power to give ? Or rather, if we may
be allowed to reverse the question, do you feel that it would be
possible for you to obey those who should prescribe to you, on
the bed of death, the profession of a different faith from your
own ? And if, on the other hand, you knew that you could
not disobey without being yourself condemued to the galleys,
and your children to beggary, would not this pretended re-
spect for your faith appear a cruel mockery in your eyes ?

" * We are therefore reduced to appeal to the very edict by
which your great-grandfather revoked that of Henry IV. as
a law of protection. The last clause, indeed, forbade our being
disturbed. Provided we had no more pastors, or churches, or
worship, we were allowed to remain as we were in the enjoy-
ment of our property, and to carry on our affairs " without
being liable," said the edict, " to be troubled or hindered under
the pretext of religion."

" * Thus spoke Louis XIV. in October 1685, and less than
a month afterwards, we were already under another law. " His
Majesty," wrote M. de Louvois to those who commanded in
the provinces, "desires that the greatest severities may be
exercised towards those who will not consent to adopt his
religion ; and those who may have the empty glory of being
the last to obey, shall be driven to the last extremities."

" * Need we now say how these conversions by wholesale
were obtained, on which it was about to be established, that
we might all be considered as converts or relapsed ?

" * Enough of Romanists have condemned the dragonnades^
to make it unnecessary for us to prove all that was extraor-

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 65

dinary and odious in the employment of such means. Have
they at last ceased ? It is generally thought so, and yet. Sire,
it is by no means the case. Every year, or almost every year,
they have been attempted on various points of our unhappy
country. Very recently, in 1758, they began again through-
out the south, with alarming activity. It is only by forcibly
quartering upon our people, dragoons, or horsemen of the
patrol, that consent has latterly been forced from a great
number of them to baptize their children in your Church.

" * But it is, above all, against our religious assemblies that
the severest and most unremitting severities have been prac-
tised. Here we feel that we no longer stand so clearly on the
inviolable ground of faith and conscience. Your Majesty has
a right to choose that numerous assemblies should not take
place in your dominions, without your authorization.

" * Ah I Sire, our reply is in all we have suffered and still
suffer every day, by disobeying you in this respect. That
desire to share our emotions with our fellow-men, so univer-
sal and ardent even in ordinary times, acquires such strength
fix)m persecution, that neither threats nor punishments, nor,
in a word, anything on earth, can repress it. We had more
than five hundred places of worship before our misfortunes —
they have all been destroyed. We pass by the venerated
spots where our fathers prayed, without even daring to cast
upon them a look of regret ; we go and seek at a distance,
under the vault of heaven, that which we should have found
in happier times under the humble roofs of our temples.
This is our crime. Sire ; this it is that has brought so many of
our brethren to the galleys, and of our pastors to death ; this
it is which will continue to cause the same severities, for we
feel that it is not in our power to cease to provoke them.
The louder the storm rages, the more we shall feel the need
of drawing closer to each other. Wherever it is not abso-

VOL. II. E

66 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

lutely impossible to assemble together, it will be done. This
is no vain boast, Sire ; may God preserve us from such I No
one in France desires more than ourselves, not to have to
disobey you. We are only opening our hearts to you at this
moment; we entreat you to consider how deeply rooted are
the principles and feelings that you are trying to eradicate
from them. Ah I if those of our attachment to the king and
to France were not deep likewise, and very deep, tliink you
that it would be still possible for us to see in you a father,
and in this land our country ?

" * Such laws are not only cruel ; they have, besides, the
inconvenience of only being applied, as it were, at random.
If some of us are punished for having been present at an
assembly — a thousand, two thousand, ten thousand others
have shared their crime, and yet do not share their punish-
ment. Is it proper, is it wise, even setting aside all considera-
tions of justice, that there should thus be laws in a state that
punish blindly, and never reach more than one or two of the
guilty in a hundred ? What scope is left for the despotism
of the men intrusted with their application I Justice itself^
under such forms, would become unjust. Has it even been
attempted to remedy in practice, the vices inherent to such a
state of things ?

" * On the contrary ; in proportion as the laws became
more severe, you suppressed the protecting delays of ordinary
justice. When M. de Baville was seen to condemn to the
galleys, in 1698, as many as seventy-six Protestants in one
morning, it might have been thought that we had reached the
farthest limit of oppression. It would have been a mistake.
Sire ; it has been carried still farther. The law at that time only
visited those who were taken in the overt act of assembling ;
but the same penalty has been extended, since 1745, to all
those, says the decree, " that shall he Jcnovm " to have been

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 67

present at these meetings. Still more, the sub-governor,
according to former rules, could only pronounce sentence
with the assistance of five doctors of law. You have taken
from us this last guarantee. Since this same edict of 1745,
the sub-governor sits in judgment alone, alone pronounces the
final sentence. We must go back to the worst times of pagan
persecution, to find examples of such absolute power com-
mitted to the hands of a mere magistrate.

" * The sub-governors are not only masters of our liberty
and our lives, but also of our properties. On this head,
despotism has no limits. In the midst of France, in the
eighteenth century, there yet remain people taillables et cor-
vkibles d merci* as it was called in the twelfth. We are
these unfortunate beings, for whom the right of property is
done away with ; in fact, there is indeed not one of us but
may be perpetually exposed to some of the pecuniary penalties
specified in your edicts. It would be too long to enter into
detail ; besides, all previous regulations are now summed up
in one, which would be equivalent, provided it were executed
literally, to the pure and simple confiscation of all we possess
in the kingdom. The sub-governor has been invested with
the right to tax, arbitrarily and without appeal, all the Pro-
testants of the district where an assembly has been held,
including those who may prove that they were not present.
In case the minister is taken, the fine is fixed ; the head of
each family is taxed at 3000 livres — ^more than a great many
of us, in our poor mountains, possess as our all.

" * The sub-governors shrink, in general, from the odious
task of thus reducing, at one blow, the inhabitants of a ham-
let, a village, or a whole district to penury ; but they will not
always be able to shrink from it. Therefore, every year, some
districts are visited with enormous fines ; every year all may

* Liable to discretionary or unlimited taxation. — Trans.

68 FRASCE BEFORE TIIB SETOLnnON.

expect tiie same thmg;. An individual may be m easy cir-J
cnmBtances in the moraiiig, who, before night, haa neithar
food nor lodging,

" ' This money haa Bcarcely left our hands when it serrei
to pay for freah means of oppreBsioa. It goes to the c
l« pay for the support of our wives and danghters, who e
dead to us ; it goes to the prisons, to reward our jaUeis; t
Ihe garrisons, to stimiilato the Eea! of the eoldiery ; in shorty I
it is offered to whoever shall give notice of au assembly, shall
facilitate the arrest of a minigter, shall denounce, either pub-
licly or secretly, any infraction of the edicts. Information,
treachery, are openly recommended, openly paid; the simpleBt
and first notions of honour, good faith, even pity, arc reputed
criminal. There ia not only money for whoever betrays us,
there are punishmeDta for those who do not. K a fiigitiTSj
minister comes and knocks at our door, let us hasten to giv(
him up to the executioner, or we ourselves must go t
galleys. Ah I Sire, it is still a great consolation to be able *
to say, when we hear our sentence, " These very men who
condemn us, on account of an edict, for having acted thus,
would condemn us in their heart if we could have done other- ^
wise I" But what, then, is that legislation which oblige
judges to punish that which they would consider as hoDOUi
able and natural in everything else? In presence of t
immutable laws of reason aad humanity, what difference caa
be seen between a Christian of the first centuries sheltering a
Christian from the rage of the proconsuls, and a Protestant of
our days sheltering his pastor &om the search of a magtstratsTI

" ' There are, unhappily, many other points. Sire, on w
your edicts are not more in acconlanee with those etem _
laws of which you would be the first to condemn the violatioj
in every other circumstanco.

" ' What shall we say of the hlows levelled against pitrenta

itiva^B

la

abl6^^

.hus,
Jier-^^

QOUS^H

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 69

authority, against all family ties and affections ? Our chil-
dren do not belong to us. Not only must we send them to
Eoman Catholic schools* under pain of enormous fines, but we
must offer no resistance to the efforts made to convert them.
From the age of seven they are allowed to abjure, and we
cannot prevent it ; abjuration, even when they are surprised
into it, is irrevocable. Oft^n it is not waited for. As soon
as it is pretended that some inclination to become a Eomanist
has been seen in the child, his removal from his father is
authorized, in order, it is said, that the precious germ may
not risk being eradicated. By this means. Sire, not a child is
safe ; not a father can be sure of embracing at night those he
has embraced in the morning. Nothing, besides, is settled or
regulated in the exercise of this fearful power. Bishops,
governors, sub-governors, delegates, and sub-delegates, mere
priests, mere private individuals — all, on the slightest pretext,
may be invested with it. The magistrates never refuse to
sanction that which has been suggested by a zeal so ad-
mirable I'"

^' It is infamous I " said the king.

Madame de Pompadour had watched on his countenance
the effects of this reading. She had begun, in order to re-
main neuter, by reading as composedly as possible ; gradually,
either she allowed herself to be impressed, or else, rather,
she perceived there was no longer any danger in appear-
ing affected, and, therefore, lent to the real sorrows of the
oppressed Protestants all that charm and talent with which
she knew so well how to embellish the futile productions of

• In the midst of this great zeal for the conyenion of poor peasants buried in their
mountains, would we know what was passing at Paris ? " The holy Archbishop de Beau
moat discoyered all at once, that not only the market-women did not send their children
to be catechized, but that they themselves had no kind of notion of religion or morality*
because their mothers and grandmothers had received none."— Madame de Genlis, " Dic-
ttonnaire dee Moeurs."

70 FRAHCB BEFOBE THE RETOLUTIOM.

the Musee. The Marshal, for his part, no longer sought
conceal his sympathy. A simple picture of suffering' wouUt
have produced less impression upon him ; hut this tissue of
inunoraiity was repugnant to his good faith as a gentleman,
and his bluntness as an old soldier. He woald have better,
understood the extermination of the Frot^stantB than thi
infernal combinationB of a tyranny at once atrociouB
mean. She pn>ce«ded : —

" ' Such, Sire, ie tlie deplorable condition to which you have
reduced so great a number of your faithful subjects. In your
laws against them, you have set aside principles which you
would have felt bound to proclaim everywhere else
have expelled from your heart feelings which you would bli
to forget towards your greatest enemies. Yes, we repeat
and your Majesty will not contradict us ; you would blush
accomplisb the weakening of a nation that was your enemy,
by encouraging treason in the heart of it, by breaking all
famUy ties, by torturing, in all that is dearest to them, those
who should refuse to concur in your plans. Amidst the wars
of the present time, you would have banished from your coun-
cils, as an enemy to your glory, the man who should have pro-
posed to you to publish aguinst England or Fnissia Bome
manifesto similar to your edicts against us ; and you wonid
have thought yourself obliged to protest in the face of Enn^
against the insult done you by that man, in supposing yon
capable of listening to him.

" ' A legislation so cruel and so immoral can only liara
been conceived by men accustomed to consider good all that
leads to the end in view. We do not know, and we do not
wish to know. Sire, to whom we owe your severities. We
only aak for one thing, in conclusion ; that your Majea^
would condescend to take at random, in your own edicta
those of the late king, any one of the regulations to whicli

t>ett«r
theafl

your
1 you

blui^l

ishti^

i

1

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 7 1

have called your attention ; that you would present it, under
the fonn of a general question, to those very men who approve
them when they are to be applied to us ; and if there is one
who can say. This is good — this is wise and moral, we shall
give up complaining, and for ever bow our heads beneath
whatever yoke may be laid upon us.

" * But no, Sire, set aside all those hard-hearted counsellors
whose prejudices are unmerciful ; consult yourself only, your
own reason, your heart. See whether it is not time that our
sufferings should end; that our chains should fall off; that
we should recover our rights, if not of citizens, at least of
men. See whether it is indeed your conscience that induces
you to offer us up as a sacrifice to the rancour of a power whose
ambition you dread. Your great-grandfather never was more
terrible towards us than when he was on the worst terms
with the Court of Rome ; all that he refiised in submission
and homage to the Pope, he paid him in Huguenot blood.
May not that be the secret of our misfortunes in more than
one respect? And if there are those who hate us because
they are strict Romanists, are there not also those who become
our persecutors precisely because they are the very reverse ?
Zeal may serve as an excuse for the former ; but for the lat-
ter, what a fearful account will they not have to render to
God!'"

" Is it finished ?" said the king.

" Yes, Sire."

" Well, Marchioness, write : —

" To the Duke de Choiseul.

'^ I am of opinion, cousin, that there is something, and
even much, to modify in the way in which those of the pre-
tended Reformed religion are treated in my dominions. A
petition has been laid before me, which shows me that my
real intentions have been much exceeded in the edicts that I

7^ FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

have been made to publish, and that they have been carried
too far. I see, moreover, that with all the measures I have
been induced to take, and all those that may yet be taken^
two or three centuries of severity would not, perhaps, suffice
to attain the object I had in view.

"My intention, therefore, is that it should be given up.
Draw up for me the plan of an edict, in which" —

The king stopped.

" An edict I It is very difficult. What will the clergy
say ? What will the Pope say ? An edict I — no. Let us
only send orders to the sub-governors secretly, to drop the
former ones. But, all at once ? What will be said ?"

Louis XV. was thus constituted. At the first difficulties
he drew back*

" What will be said ?" resumed he. " Yes, this time they
may cry out, * D^dit du roil'* No — ^no edict — no orders.
That will be for my successor."

" In that case," said Eichelieu, " the Protestants will need
patience. The more so as the Dauphin is by no means
friendly to them."

" Suppose your Majesty were to speak to the Duke de
Choiseul," said the Marchioness. " He has drawn up more
edicts than your Majesty," added she, laughing. " Perhaps
he might arrange this one to the satisfaction of everybody."

" The devotees included ?"

" No — but all reasonable people."

" That is to say, almost nobody."

" Try, at all events."

* The saying was oqo of M. Cury's, a professed jeeter, and well known to Louis XV.
At the time of the quarrel&with the Parliament, as they were selling in the streets an
edict in which the king was banning to yield, he said to a crior that it was not ARl
bat cUdit, and the man, who could not read, went away crying cUdit, till he was takea
ap by the police. [It will be remembered that the Frcoiich verb d^dire means to
untajfi—Trant.']

PEIE8TS, INFIDELS, AND UUQUEM0T8. 78

" Let US try. Send for the Duke."

" This evening, Sure ? "

" This evening. I wish to have done with it. To think
that, with a word, I can restore peace and happiness to thou-
sands of beings, and be sure of their blessings " —

" Yes ; it is a great thing to be a king, Sire."

" Do you think so ?" said Louis XV., bitterly. " A great
thing, faith I to discover at the end of forty -five years, that
one has been the tyrant and the executioner of a great part
of one's subjects ? Suppose we were to go to supper. Mar-
chioness?"

" And the Duke de Choiseul, Sire ? I have just ordered
him to be sent for."

" So much the worse. What was I thinking of? Do you
know that I have already passed nearly two hours with him
and the comptroller-general?"

She knew it, for Choiseul never failed to go and see her
both before and after he did business with the king. But
the king was not to know that they had this mutual under-
standing. They appeared to agree without seeming to have
concerted together, and the king, who could only be led to
have an opinion of his own from distrust, was not likely, in
this way, to have one that differed from theirs.

" Has your Majesty done business with him in the course
of the day?"

" For two hours, I tell you ; and what a labour I to add
up millions."

" And your Majesty complains ?" said Richelieu.

" Millions of deficit. Marshal. Every year we get a little
lower. When Choiseul showed me this gulf^ I thought I
should be giddy. We receive a hundred and seventy-two
millions; we spend three hundred and fifty-seven. Reckon" —

^' There must be some mistake, Sire."

74 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

" Not at all. The total of our receipts amounts to three
hundred and twelve. Out of this number, one hundred and
forty are spent beforehand. Deficit, a hundred and eighty-
five. It is evident. Five hundred thousand livres a day,
if you like better."

*" What is that for France ?"

" Oh I you are of the number of " —

"Of whom. Sire?"

" Of those of whom the court of accounts speaks in its last
remonstrances. Here — ^read it — there, on that page."

Richelieu took the paper, and read : —

" ' Your Majesty cannot be too much on your guard against
those who, to satisfy their insatiable thirst for your gifts ' "—

" I never asked for anything," said the Duke, pausing.

*' No. You only took " —

"Sire!"

" Come, do not be angry. I know it was in Germany that
you helped yourself, not in France. Have I ever appeared
displeased with you for it? But finish the sentence. It
was the end that I was thinking of, when I gave it to you
to read."

" * — of those who magnify in your eyes the opulence of the
people. The zeal of your people is inexhaustible, but their
power does not correspond to their zeal.' "

" That is just like those limbs of the law," said the Duke,
returning the paper to the king. " With what would they
have us carry on war ?"

" They would rather not go to war at all. But as there is
no means of giving them that satisfaction at present, we have
thought of another expedient. I have just ordered my plate
to be carried to the mint."

** That is truly great and noble. Sire."

" Indeed ! And I have no doubt my example will be

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 75

followed. To-morrow, you and all the Court will be requested
to do the same. — Well, what is the matter ? You seem as
if you did not approve."

In fact, he was somewhat taken by surprise. The noble
Duke's plate was very handsome I But he soon recovered
himself.

" To the mint, then I" said he.

His decision was made. Early next morning, he had not
a silver dish left. We have already said, what he received
or took with one hand, he was always ready to give with the
other, for his king and his country.

76 FBANCE BEFORE THE BEYOLUTION.

CHAPTER IV.

It was a curious sight, however, to see an administration
absorbing every year one-half of what the next was to bring
in. We say a curious sight, for as yet there were but few
people who thought it alarming. A state of deficit had be-
come the usual state of things. People had accustomed
themselves to it in time of peace, it seemed therefore natural
that it should be doubled in time of war. Not that the
Parliaments in their remonstrances, and the political econo-
mists in their books, failed to attack such a state of things ;
the Government had not yet devised the expedient, as it did
four years later, at the request of the comptroller-general,
Laverdy, of prohibiting all publications on the finances. But
the case was the same with their complaints as with those
from the pulpit ; many did not listen to them ; many, though
they listened, could not take the alarm. The longer the
maohine had been rolling on towards the precipice, the more
they seemed to think that it might roll on for ever. The
king, in spite of his indifference, was one of those who was
the most anxious on the subject. " What would a merchant
do,'' said he once to the Abb^ Terray, " if he saw his affairs in
the same state as mine?" " He would drown himself^ Sire,"
answered the abbe.

The poor king drowned himself in his own way. In the
amusements of debauchery, he stifled as he best coidd all feel-

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 77

ing of that mighty rain which he had neither courage,
strength, nor even the desire to remedy.

The Cardinal de Flenry, alone, since the time of Colbert,
had drawn up a budget for Government in which the expen-
diture, on paper at least, did not exceed the receipts ; and he
had only attained to it, thanks to a long peace, by consider-
ably reducing the army, and giving up the navy.

In the budget of 1726, the expenditure was brought down
to a hundred and eighty-two millions, an amount equal to
or even below that of the ordinary receipts.

This estimate, which may be thought very low, was far
from being so in reality. In the first place, a hundred and
eighty- two millions, at that period, were equivalent to at least
three hundred at the present day. In the second place, the
population has doubled. These three hundred millions would
therefore be equal to six hundred. Finally, a multitude of
expenses, which are borne in the present day by the central
treasury, were then laid upon the provinces. Thus, for
instance, in the same budget of 1726, public works are rated
at four millions.

On the other hand, notwithstanding reductions which had
appeared exorbitant, the king's household is rated at twenty-
one millions (thirty-two or thirty-three of the present day ;
nearly a hundred thousand francs a day) — and yet the king,
in 1726, was Louis XV., only sixteen, already married, but
without children, without mistresses, without expensive tastes,
and respectfiiUy submissive to the old minister who had drawn
up this budget. Then came his passions, and all was changed.
The fb^ed and known expenses underwent no increase. The
king consented willingly to reduce them, and it was no sa-
crifice to him, for pomp annoyed him. He felt lost in the
galleries of his great-grandfather ; he did his best to dimin-
ish the palace of Louis XIV. When he was seen retrenching

7S niAKCK BBFOBE THE

a million on expeniiitiire that at least Berved to increase thsM
brilliancy of the crown, it was a sign, al^ 1 that he intended '
to throw away two, if not more, in channels where the dignity
of the king was lost, aa well as the gold of his kingdom.
BesideB, it was certain that these very retrenchments annomiced.
80 OBtentatiouely, would not be realized. He had not strength of
mind to thinkof retrenchment in great things; and he was told
that it was nut worth while to economize ia little, and that
it would be a mere farce to cut off a few crowns upon so many
millions. "When penury reached its height, he consented to
throw his plate into the furnaces of the mint, but would not
diminish a single louis on the budget of the Parc-aitx-Cerfs.

That very day, the alarming calculations of the comptroller-
general had not prevented his reverting to the qtieation of his
money for play with the Duke de Choiseul. We have si
Ihat M. de Silhouette had brought him to give it up;
have also seen how much this privation weighed upon 1
miiid. The third or fourth day after, without as jet speakiogj
of it, he had thought of means for having thJB money hack.
He could not venture to take it back. M. de Silhouette was
an important personage ; besides, the thing was known t
public. The king had been praised, and the minister yet^
more. In that quarter, then, there was nothing to be done, r

The king had opened hia mind, therefore, to the Duke d
Choiseul, " Wo shall see," the Duke had said ; but he v
very glad to open the old path once more to the king. It
was a favourable circumstance to have a service of this kind
to render. Choiseul had therefore almost promised to get
back these funds for him ; so that, after having sent for him
on other bnsiness, the king, when his minister arrived, already
only thought of that. He took him therefore into his closet.

"Well, Duke, what news?"

" Despatches from Germany."

kiogS
ack.
was

lie. ^H
ed^l

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 79

" Oh ! from Grennany," said the king, in the tone of a man
who receives a different answer from the one he wished for.

News in general, we mean, serious news, interested him
very little. He had often lost the thread of an important
report, for the sake of an anecdote of the town. " There
are news from Bavaria," he wrote one day to Madame de
Chateauroux : " they are of the 13th December ; but I have
not read them J* Yet it was the 3d of January. Madame
de Chateauroux, who aspired to act the part of Agnes Sorel,
made herself very uneasy about this carelessness ; Madame
de Pompadour, on the contrary, it quite suited.

The king therefore appeared to care but little to know the
contents of the despatches ; but the minister was well pleased
to let him sigh for a little while after what he wished so much
to know.

" Yes, Sire, from Germany. It appears that all is going on
pretty well. The campaign began rather late in June."

" Which was very absurd," said the king.

" Provisions were scarce, and means of conveyance difficult."

" According to the commissaries."

" Perhaps. But now the Marshal de Broglie is established
in Hesse. Hanover is being put under contribution."

"Poor Hanover I after Richelieu, Broglie. Have they
fought?"

" Yes, near to Clostercamp."

"The whole army?"

" Only one corps, commanded by the Marquis de Castries.
Wesel, which the Duke of Brunswick was on the point of
taking, has been relieved. He almost beat us."

" These contributions," said the king, " which are being
raised in Hanover, shall we have no share of them?"

" None, Sire. We are only too glad that they cover a part
of the expenses of the army."

80 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

" But, I mean, will there be nothing to keep back on the
funds allotted?"

" On the contrary, our calculations are exceeded. There
will be several millions to add."

" But, in short, have you got any money for me ? Shall I
be the last served?"

" Your Majesty is all-powerful. You have but to order.
But you are aware that all eyes are fixed upon you at this
moment."

" Did you say that the Duke of Brunswick had nearly
beaten us?"

" And would have beaten us, Sire, but for the admirable
devotedness of an officer of the regiment of Auvergne, the
Chevalier d'Assas."

" Another to be paid," murmured the king.

" No, Sire ; he is dead."

"Indeed I"

" They were about to fall into an ambuscade. D'Assas,
who marched in front, was suddenly surrounded by enemies.
He was told to be silent or that he was a dead man. * To
the rescue I ' he cried ; * it is the enemy I ' and fell pierced with
wounds."

But the king had something else to do than to admire those
who died for his sake. He wanted his money for play ; he
thought of it with the tenacity of a child that grows more
obstinate the longer it is refused. The minister felt that the
moment for yielding had arrived, or there would be no grati-
tude to be expected.

" Sire," said he, " all things well weighed, what you wish
is not, perhaps, impossible. Some private retrenchments on
the funds of my department* will, perhaps, make up to you
for what you have been pleased to resign."

* Foreign AfBdzB.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 81

" And no one will know anything of it ?"

" No one."

" But when they see me play ?"

" The king has no account to give."

He accepted ; two days after, the affair was public. Who
had betrayed the secret ? Perhaps the minister — ^perhaps the
king himself unconsciously. But he continued to believe that
no one would think evil of it ; and as it is said, that stolen
fruit is always better than that gathered at home, he never
played with more pleasure than with this money stolen fix)m
diplomatic intrigues.

But to return. Once satisfied, the king appeared rather more
disposed to speak of business. He inquired about the details
of the campaign, went back upon the death of D'Assas, and
spoke of it with praise ; he even took notes of some observa-
tions to be made to the Count de Belle-Isle, minister of war.
In short, he thought of everything except the subject respect-
ing which he had sent for his minister.

But as the Duke was going away — " Oh I I forgot," said
Louis XV. ; " you must draw me up an edict relating to the
Protestants."

" But, Sire, all that could be done against them has been
done."

" I did not say ' against them.' "

" It is, then"—

" What your friends, the Encyclopaedists, are asking for ;
well, does it not suit you ?"

" It is a very serious business. Sire."

" And you see that I employ you in it, instead of St. Flo-
rentin, whose business it ought to be."

"You do me honour. Sire, but" —

He was very much embarrassed. To object was to deny
principles which the king knew he held ; but it did not suit

VOL. n. F

82 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

him at that moment to change in any degree the former sefve-
rities. We have seen, that more than any one else, he needed
to have an answer ready for those who accused him of lower-
ing Eomanism ; more than any one else he strove to hide
beneath the worn-out shreds of intolerance all that he was
beginning to venture against the old spirit of Rome. Besides,
he was not a man to feel any uneasiness at sufferings of which
this policy rendered the continuance necessary. When a
general has an object in view, he takes very easily the annoy-
ances and sufferings to which his soldiers are to be exposed ;
so it was with M. de Choiseul. It cost him no more to leave
a portion of the population under cruel laws than to send a
regiment to the war in Germany, or a frigate to Pondicherry*
" So," resumed the king, " you would not be of that
opmion ?

" I do not say that, Sire ; but I repeat, the thing is serious.
I should wish to reflect ; your Majesty is not in the habit of
taking such sudden resolutions."

This was another thing which gave the minister some dis-
quiet. He trembled to discover in the king's determination
some rival influence.

"Does that astonish you?" said Louis XV. "There is
perhaps sufficient reason ; but I know by experience that what
I do not do at once, I never do at all. Besides, the edict will
be examined in council."

" But I should wish that your Majesty would at least point
out the basis of it."

" Well, we shall speak of it another time."

" Has your Majesty no other order to give me?"

" No. — Stop ; when will you send me some supply?"

" Immediately, if your Majesty wishes it."

" No, not this evening, I have something else to do."

" What else has he to do ? " thought the minister, as he went

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 83

away. In vain he said to himself that he should know next
day by Madame de Pompadour ; he seemed to perceive already
that the kiBgwas escaping from the leading-strings, or taking
another master.

The king had no such thought ; he was only happy,
without well knowing why, to feel disposed for once to act for
himself. It was the pleasure of the child who has attained to
walking a few steps alone without knowing how. He reflected
for a few moments ; then, as if proud of his new behaviour and
desirous to show it, he returned to the Marchioness. She was
alone. The Duke de Richelieu was gone, she said, to give
some orders respecting the f§te at Bellevue.

** Marchioness," said he, " we must finish this business. I
wish to try my skill upon this edict that is said to be so difficult
to draw up. You shall act once more as my secretary. Write —

" * Although firmly resolved to live and die in the Catholic
religion, and not to tolerate any attack against its rights,
honours, and privileges, of whatever nature they are or may
be, nevertheless, it having been shown to us that part of our
subjects have not yet been brought to the profession of the
truth, it has appeared to us that some of our previous edicts
might be modified, which were conceived under the supposi-
tion that there existed but one religion in our kingdom.

" ' Our subjects who are not Catholic shall continue incapa-
citated to constitute a body in the state, under whatever form
or denomination it may be. They shall remain subject to all
general statutes, including those relative to the external
observance of the festivals of the Church. No privilege shall
be granted them ; no right but what they enjoy in common
with the rest of our subjects shall accrue to them from the
present edict.

" * Our intentions being thus laid down, we have decreed,
and do decree as follows : —

84 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

" * Art 1. The civil disabilities to which our subjects who
are not Catholics have been subject up to this time, by the
fact of their non- Catholicity, are and remain abolished.

" * Art 2. Their declarations of births, marriages, or deaths,
shall be received by our officers of justice, without the inter-
vention of the clergy.

" * Art 3. There shall be as heretofore, but one public wor-
ship celebrated, that of the Catholic, Apostolic, and Eoman
religion. However^ " —

The king was trying to frame the continuation of this
article, not without some trouble, when a knock at the door
was heard. He went to open it ; it was a page.

" His Reverence Father Desmar^ts inquires if his Majesty
will graciously receive him for a few minutes?"

"Father Desmar^ts, Marchioness I" said the king, return-
ing quickly. " What can he want ?"

" Ah I Sire, he has got scent of the edict."

*' Impossible."

"For a Jesuit?"

"Shall I receive him?"

" Certainly ; but let me go out."

" We shall meet presently."

"At supper?"

" Very well."

She vanished by one door, and a few seconds after, Des-
mar§t8 came in by the other.

She was not mistaken ; the confessor had got scent of the
edict. It was not, however, the edict — ^the project of which
was only an hour old, that had brought him to Versailles that
evening.

Richelieu had met him bending his steps towards the
king's apartments, in a serious and gloomy mood. These two
confidants of the faults of the same man, so different in them-

PBIE8T3, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 85

selves, had always looked upon each other with a jealous eye.
They were the living personifications of the two principles
that contended for the mastery in the king's mind, and it was
always more or less visible from their several demeanours
which of the two for the time being had the largest share in
this territory, thus tossed between heaven and hell. They
were, however, far from manifesting the same feelings in the
same way. When Richelieu triumphed, he scarcely conde-
scended to look down upon Desmar^ts from the height of his
own importance ; when Desmar^ts triumphed, his eyes were
more cast down, his voice more gentle, his behaviour more
humble than ever. Thus, at critical moments, when he
himself scarcely knew whether he was the victor or the van-
quished, his countenance afforded a singular enough mixture
of proud resignation and haughty humility. Richelieu amused
himself, as he said, hy playing off the old Jesuit. With that
fatuity which his success with women encouraged, he sincerely
imagined that he had scarcely any difficulty in making him
betray his most secret feelings ; he did not perceive that he
began by betraying his own. Desmar^ts had reached the
very depths of Richelieu's mind, before the latter had even
got to the surface of his.

" Good evening. Father, good evening I " cried he to the
priest. " We are on our way to the king ?"

" If his Majesty will condescend to receive me."

" K he will condescend — What I is not Father Desmar^ts
always welcome by day or by night?"

He fancied himself very malicious in reminding Desmar^ts
of the evening that he had come as far as the ante-chamber
to be told by the attendants that the king was with his mis-
tress. But it was this very remembrance that the Jesuit had
resolved to brave. If he came at night, it was precisely in
order to wash out the former afiront by announcing himself to

86 FRANCE BEFOBE THE REVOLUTION.

the king wherever he might be, and in whatever society he
might be.

" Your Grace is very obligmg," said he.

" Do not let me detain you, Father. His Majesty is occu-
pied, it is true'* —

" Indeed r'

" But with very holy concerns — about the Huguenots" —

" Some edict, doubtless ?''

" Yes ; an edict — such as there has not been any as yet.
Go, Father, go I"

And he went away chuckling.

" Faith," said he, "the edict stands but little chance. That
devil of a man will never let it come to a good end ; and he
will bear it the greater ill-will that he expects something
quite different — ^persecutions, dragoons. I should like to see
his face when he hears what it really is."

The worthy Father* also went away sneering, and he knew
still better why. He had easily guessed, by the looks of the
Marshal, what might be the spirit of this edict. He had had
a copy in his pocket for two days past of the petition that
had just been read to the king — thanks to one of his agents,
secretary to Richelieu. In short, he thought he perceived
means of turning these very ideas of toleration in the king's
mind to the accomplishment of his own designs.

A grand council had been held at Paris, by the principal
leaders of the order. They all agreed, as formerly at the
archbishop^s, in acknowledging the imminence of the danger.
The question was making alarming progress. Some, and in
particular the provincial Fathers, persisted in thinking that
they ought to await the blow — to fall without resistance, or
be conquerors without a struggle. Others, whilst they ac-
knowledged that public resistance would only aggravate the
perils of their situation, wished to endeavour, at least^ to

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND IIUCJUENOTS. 87

ascertain how the king was disposed towards them, and w)iat
might be expected irom him. It had been decided that his
confessor should go to him, should candidly enter uiwn the
question, and oblige him to give his opinion. Desmar^'ts,
who was intrusted with this mission, was one of those w)io
expected the least from it. He had raised the objection of
the king's natural indecision, the feebleness of his most deter-
mined resolves. " All might be lost," said he, " without any
chance of gaining a point." But the thing once decided, he
had obeyed, as Jesuits only know how to obey. The will of
his order, represented before him by these few Fathers, had
become his. He went forward to the conflict without fear, as
without hope, equally ready to venture much or little, to draw
back or to advance.

" Come in, Father," said the king. " To what chance" —

" Does my presence surprise you. Sire ?"

"But"—

" And I, too, asked myself, as I came, what I had to do
here. The king is determined on his own niin, I thought ;
let him accomplish it ; but to involve in his own ruin that of
France, of the Church" —

" This is language. Father" —

" That God will perhaps punish me for not having held
towards you more distinctly and sooner. I shall no longer
speak to you of your immoral life. On this head, I have done
my duty. All that I could say to you, I have said, and to no
purpose. Very lately, after promises and resolutions that I
began to think sincere, you have mocked — I will not say me ;
the King of France is quite at liberty to mock Father Des-
mardts — ^but Grod, whom we cannot mock and go unpunished^
says the Scripture, and the punishment has indeed speedily
followed the crime."

^' The punishment?" said the king^ in astonishment.

88 iTlANCE BEFORE THE REVOIiUTION.

" Yes ; even twofold, because you do not perceive it. * Hear-
ing ye shall hear/ says the Scripture, ' and shall not under-
stand ; seeing ye shall see, and shall not perceive.' "

" Where do you see, then," resumed the king, " this blind-
ness of which you speak ? I have sinned, but not without
knowing it. Would to God" —

" A king is not only responsible for the evil that he does
himself, he is likewise (he is even perhaps more) responrable
for the evil that he allows to be done. Well, Sire, have you
thought of all the evil that you allow to be done ? Do you
prevent what you can prevent ? Do you mourn over what
you can neither prevent nor punish?"

" If I was obliged to punish or deplore all the evil that is
done and said in France, should I be able to stand it ? At
this rate, no king could ever have worked out his salvation."

" In truth, no king ever was saved, if he refused to offer
those compensations to Heaven which his power permitted
him to offer for his own sins and those of his people."

"Yes, that is it. Let us be but the servants of the
Church — and, above all, yours — and after that, we may do
as we please."

" What you please ? No, Sire ! At each fault you commit,
you will find us on your road. Beforehand, we shall summon
you, in God^s name, not to commit it ; afterwards, still in
God^s name, we shall be there to offer you pardon. We can
offer it ; but we cannot pay for it ; no, not if we gave all our
blood. It is for you to pay ; and with what ? If the treasure
has not been laid up beforehand, where can it be sought
for at the last moment ?"

Here was Jesuitism embodied ; to pay for heaven, instead
of receiving it by faith, joined to good works, as a pure gift
of the grace of God."

" Yes," repeated he, " where can it be sought for? Ah I

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 89

what an a^^ful death is that of a sovereign, forced to say to
himself, when dying, ' I have had twenty, thirty years, half
a century, to labour for the glory of God, and I have done
nothing/ "

"Nothing?" cried the king.

" Nothing ; for so long as there is something to be done,
and that we can do it, and yet hesitate, nothing is done.
Should you consider the enemy vanquished, sufficiently van-
quished, at least, for your glory and safety, to whom you had
done no more harm than to those execrable principles with
which you allow your dominions to be inundated ? Should
you consider that allies whom you allowed to be threatened
and insulted as we are, could be much inclined to applaud
your good faith?"

" Allies I " murmured the king. " Since when ?"

"Since when? Listen to me, Sire. Since kings have
existed, there has necessarily been an alliance between those
who command and those who preach obedience. Besides,
and above those who nile in the name of this world, there
must be others who rule in the name of heaven ; and the
former can never try with impunity to do without the latter.
This principle of obedience, without which all your power
might, at the first wind that blows, become but a name, is
represented by us, Sire ; our Society is at the present time
the incarnation of it. Do you ask by what title ? Wo to
the sovereign who, in these times, when everything is shaken,
stops to seek our title I We exist, that is enough. It is not
in the midst of the tempest that we would set about inquiring
the history, the form, and the nature of the rock that would
afford us shelter."

" And if it should be shaken also ?" said the king. " If we
should be carried away with it?"

" It would be more easy to be carried away without it.

90 FRANCE BEFORE TUB REVOLUTION.

Yes, Sire ; whatever may be the opmion or the prejudices
regarding us, we have become, by the mere force of things,
the representatives of the past, the depositaries of all tradition.
In our soil, the roots of monarchy as well as those of the
Church have penetrated naturally, as in their appropriate
ground. Let this soil be ploughed up, and you will see
whether the plough of the times will cut up the one more
than another. If you intend to rush forward, with the philo-
sophers, into that new world that they profess to open out
to mankind, then I have nothing to say to you. Lay down
your crown at the threshold of it, unless you wish to see it
soon in the mire. But if you mean to keep it on your head,
no more of these tergiversations, by which your soul as well
as your dominions will be lost. You must openly be the
friend, the supporter of those, who, in defending themselves,
defend you ; whose fall will involve your own. The time is
past when sensible people might say that our Society is not
the Church — is not religion. Religion, the Church, existed
before us ; will they exist after us ? That is the question.
It need no longer be asked how such a position has been made
for us, or how we have made it for ourselves ; all that is
required, is to understand that it is ours ; and that whoso-
ever, at the present day, is not for us, is necessarily against
us, against religion, against monarchy, and against all that
monarchy, religion, and the Church have to support in this
world. Judge, after that, judge what you have to do."

So spoke the king's confessor. He was urgent, severe,
inexorable, and what is more, he was right. We have abeady
said that then, as now, the Jesuits were Romanism incarnate.
To break with them, with whatever precaution it might be
done, and whatever illusion might exist, was to break with
Romanism; it was to open out to the light of day, every
depth that slumbered in the darkness of the past. A vague

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 91

instinct had long since made the king feel all that he had just
heard. Had he been more bold and active, he would have
been seen, in early life, at the head of the champions of the
past. He might have been broken in the struggle, but he
would not have been bent.

" I am too old,'' said he.

"Too old to serve God?" resumed the Jesuit; "you are
not too old to sin against Him."

"Father," interrupted the king, "we are not here in the
confessional. Do not oblige me to remind you that you are
in the king's palace and in the king's presence. — Well, what
is the matter ? ' What are you doing ? "

Desmar^ts made no answer. He knelt down slowly, his
head bent, and his hands clasped at an arm-chair, on which
be had placed a crucifix. — " My God I" said he at last, " I
am in the king's palace, and in the king's presence, it is true ;
but I am yet more in Thy presence, and in Thy dwelling.
Have I gone beyond my duty ? Have I failed in the respect
due to thine anointed ? If I have, pardon me. Lord I but
above all, let him not bear the punislmient of my fault ; suffer
not that my imprudence should serve as a pretext to him for
hardening himself. Let him break the vessel if he will, but
let him keep what it contained. Let him refuse to give an
account of his life to me, a sinner, provided he renders it up
to Thee, my God I Thou hast long assigned to him a high
rank in this world ; Thou hast ordained that he should be
bom for the salvation or ruin of a multitude of Thy children.
Thou hast committed to him, not five, not ten talents, as to
the servants in the parable, but a thousand, a hundred thou-
sand. What has he done with them, my God I and what
will he bring to Thee, at the last day, when Thou shalt
require of him the interest ? Thou hadst appointed him in
Thy place, to make Thy laws respected ; and Thy laws are

92 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

violated with impunity. Thou hadst destined him to be the
terror of the ungodly,- and imgodliness walks with its head
uplifted. Though the eldest son of the Church, he is ready
to forsake his mother, and to allow her most devoted de-
fenders to be taken from her. He is the most Christian
king, and yet is about to stretch out his hand to heresy !"

" It is false I " cried the king.

But Desmar^ts, without heeding the interruption, and
without changing his tone, proceeded—

" He is going to restore to error the hope of raising up its
altars once more."

" It is false I " repeated the king.

But he felt shaken ; the tone, the calmness affected him.
He shuddered at hearing himself spoken of, in his presence, as
the dead are spoken of.

" He was, then, indeed guilty, my God," pursued the Jesuit,
" that Thou hast thus abandoned him. He appeared to Thee
too unworthy to defend thy cause, that Thou hast thus per-
mitted him to lose all horror of Thine enemies !"

" Read this," said the king ; " read."

"What is this?" said Desmarets, slowly turning his eyes
from the ebony crucifix to direct them to the paper that the
king held out to him.

" It is my edict ; read it, and see whether I renounce that
faith that you accuse me of betraying."

Desmarets rose ; the paper trembled in his hand. He had
reached the last lines before he seemed to have taken his eyes
off the first, as they went slowly from word to word.

" My God I " murmured he ; " my God I "

"Well?"

" Vain words at the outset ; facts afterwards, and the facts
cancel the words."

He allowed himself to fall on his knees again. He again

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 93

clasped his hands ; his eyes went from the cnicifix to the
edict — ^for the paper, which had slipped from his hands, had
fallen before the crucifix.

" My God," resumed he, " and this is what is offered Thee I
Vain protestations instead of an active faith. In front, zeal !
treason on one side I He says that he is resolved to live and
die in the bosom of Thy Church, and he gives up the effort to
bring back into it those who have abandoned it. He declares
that he believes in her, and yet permits other doctrines than
hers to be taught. He secures to her her prerogatives, and
yet would leave those in peace who deny them. She alone
shall have her worship in public ; in private heresy shall freely
exercise its own — as though there was any difference in Thine
eyes, Lord, between an insult in the heart of the town or in
the midst of the desert, between an abomination by day and
an abomination by night. What will this pretended most
Christian kingdom be after this, but a whited sepulchre where
the worms may multiply as they will ? What will this king" —

" Father," said Louis XV., " let us put an end to this — it
will be as God pleases. I should consider my own salvation
paid too dearly, if the price was to be the continuance of the
sufferings of so many people. No ! — say no more about it ;
let them be converted, I am quite willing ; but I have only
too long allowed them to be persecuted. This edict shall be
put into execution. Father" —

" No."

" I think you said — No."

" I said— No."

" It is my will."

"It is not the will of God I"

" It is my will. Short of a miracle" —

But he could not continue. Desmar^ts, his eyes flashing,
his arm raised, seemed but to have to pronounce the word to

94 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

perform the miracle. The king fell back, mute and thunder-
struck. One would have said it was an apparition, and a man
terrified at having called it up.

" A miracle ! " said Desmar^ts slowly. " K one is necessary,
it will take place. Where ? — ^when ? — ^how ? Grod knows !
But He will not permit apostasy to be consummated. The
eldest son of the Church shall not throw down its ramparts.
Let him look to it, and tremble ; at the first stroke his hand
would wither ! "

Then he let his own fall — and, his eyes cast down, his head
bent, as if under the weight of the maledictions that might
have been read on his countenance, he went out.

The king had kept his ground, but by a violent effort. He
had exhausted in a few minutes all the springs of that mind
which was so little accustomed to have a will of its own. He
was alarmed at what he had dared to do — at what he had
boasted that he would dare further. Depression already fol-
lowed the irritation of the struggle. The most formidable
enemy, the most invariable conqueror of a weak man, is him-
self.

PB1E8TS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 95

CHAPTER V.

Let us return to Paris.

Towards the end of the same week, the staff of the philo-
sophers' party was assembled one evening at the Marchioness
du Deffant's. Conversation was going on — what was not
talked of? We have already said what conversation was at
a period when there were no newspapers, when all that
reaches us in print was disseminated in talk, and when
liberty, banished from the press, took refuge in the drawing-
room.

A drawing-room, in the sense that custom had assigned to
the term, signified essentially a drawing-room presided over by
a lady. A man, however distinguished he might be, and how-
ever his house might be frequented, gave dinners, suppers,
assemblies, but he had not his drawing-room. Every draw-
ing-room had, besides occasional visitors, its special set.
What clever woman did not make a point of having her
menagerie, as Madame de Tencin had said ; the two principal
lions of which, still to speak in her language, were Fontenelle
and Montesquieu I Of all the drawing-rooms of that day, that
of Madame du Deffant was at that moment the one most in
fashion. Her rival, Madame St. Geofirin, had neither less wit
nor fewer friends ; only, and it was a very important point,
there was less ease at her house. Those who were the boldest
feared to displease her ; those who were timid preferred being

96 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

where it was less dangerous to be bold. People were willing
to dine with the one ; they liked better to philosophize with
the other.

At either house, however, a woman who was beginning to
contend with them for the sceptre. Mademoiselle de TEspinasse,
was sure to be met. She had been early brought into fashion
by her equivocal birth, her singular countenance, a great deal
of talent, and some information. Madame du Deflfant, since
she had become blind, had taken her in to do the honours of
her house, and above all to keep her company, for she could
not bear to be alone, even for an instant. To converse her-
self or to hear others converse, was not merely a pleasure to
her, it was a necessity — the principal, the only object with
her — in a word, her life, her all ; a mania, in fact, which was
only that of the times she lived in. On the whole, this blind
old woman, talking philosophy in her arm-chair, was a pretty
good personification of the eighteenth century.

In the midst of the crowd of which she chose to remain the
centre, Madame du Deffant was, by her own account, the per-
son who suffered the most from ennui in France. She spoke
of her ennui as Voltaire did of his ailments, that is to say, con-
tinually and to everybody. She had begun to do so long
before her blindness, as Voltaire had done long before he be-
came infirm. It was but a strange compliment to the witty
throng that fed her with gossip and slander ; but no one took
notice of it. It mattered little to them whether she con-
tinued to declare herself ennuyie^ provided they continued to
amuse themselves in her drawing-room.

She had lately become aware of what she might have fore-
seen. Her protegee had become her patroness ; her drawing-
room was that of Mademoiselle de VEspinasse. What was to
be done? To dismiss her? But there were people quite
ready to set her up in a house of her own, and this new draw-

PltlESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 97

room once opened, who would remain faithful to the poor blind
woman ? A final discovery had nearly brought about the
rupture, which only took place four years later. Three of
the most assiduous guests at the Marchioness's evening par-
ties had been surprised shutting themselves up in the daytime
with Mademoiselle de FEspinasse to converse. ^^ Have I then
cherished a serpent in my bosom?" exclaimed the mistress of
the house at these news. She would have taken no notice of
» love affair ; she forgave her wfllingly afterwards when her
intimacy with d' Alembert began to take that character ; but
to converse when she was not present, to frustrate her of a
portion of her daily bread, to take from her the cream of the
news and scandal, could only be abominable treachery in her
sight. Thence proceeded skirmishes, quarrels, reconciliations,
without end, the history of which must be read in the writ-
ings of the times, in order to have any idea to what degree
the private concerns of two women could be an affair of im-
portance in the general idleness of French society.
- Nine o'clock had just struck. The drawing-room was
nearly frdl : it would have been more so, had it not been the
month of August. Let us go in. Let us try to catch some
words in this confusion of grave nothings and serious ques-
tions lightly treated.

** It is astounding I Come, M. de la Gaille,* tell us that
again. What a pity that M. de Fontenelle is dead l"

"Why, Madam?"

" Because he only could tell us those things without
frightening us poor women too much."

" Why do you ask us about them, then ?"

" Go on, good-for-nothing man."

" Well I it is as I had the honour of informing you. I

* The astronomer.

VOL. n. o

98 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTIOII.

have calculated within a few thousand millions the numboi*
of leagues that separate us from a certain star that I have
been studying for a long time past. I find — ^but I will not
tell you the numbers. You would never recollect them.
Listen I Light, as I told you, travels at the rate of" —

" Nearly seventy thousand leagues a second."

" Very good. How long has it been before my star be-
came visible to us ?"

" Six months."

"Gomel"

" Six years."

"Bah I"

"How long, then?"

" More than nine thousand years."*

"Gk)odGodl I shall dream of it."
•" Dream, Madam, dream."
- "Nine thousand years I and seventy thousand leagues a
second!"

" Nine thousand years. There may be stars created eighty
centuries ago that we do not see yet : there may be some
annihilated as long ago, and that we still see."

"Poor Moses I"

This was the conclusion of all the discoveries of the period.
People little thought that science would at last agree with
the author of the book of Genesis, by discovering in those few
lines so scoffed at the most exact information it could have
extracted from the secrets of creation.

* * . , * * * * *

" Well I the handsome Madame Baillet consents at last to
be adored by poor d'Herbigny."

"Indeed! Who told you so ? "

" He hunself."

* We have attained since that time much more accurate calculations.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AKD HUGUENOTS. 99

"Ah, ha I"

" D'Herbigny is no boaster."

"Onol"

" If he says so, it is so."

" It was so."

" Is it so no longer?"

" It never has been so."

" K I understand you right"—

" This is the story. After more than a year of cruelty,
* D'Herbigny,' said she to him one fine morning, * I want to
have your picture.' He was up in the clouds. He rushed to
a painter's. He sat six hours the same day, six hours the
next. In two days the picture was done and framed. He
went to throw himself and his image at the feet of his fair
one. ' It is perfect,' said she, and rang the bell. In came,
not her waiting- woman, but the porter. * Master Peter,' said
she, * this is what I promiaed you : put it up in your lodge,
and when the original comes — ^you will recognise him, will
you not?' *0 yes. Madam I' *Very well, say that I am

not at home.' "

• • • . . • . '

" Oh, good evening, dear abb6 I good evening I you have
been remembered at last."

" At last, as you say."

" Is it, at least, a fat living that you have been allowed to
sigh after so long?"

" Fatj no : my pretensions never went so &r. It is what
we call a good living."

" Six or seven thousand livres a year ?"

" Nearly ten."

"Ha, ha I"

• .....•

" I tell you that the King of Prussia is a madman."

100 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOHJTION.

"A hero."
" A hypocrite.''
" A sage."
" A tyrant."
" A friend of mankind."
" A robber of states."
" Like Ccesar."
" A scribbler on paper."
" Like Marcus Anrelius."
" Yon flatter the enemy of yonr country."
" I do justice to a great man."
" You rejoice in his successes."
'' Because I see in them those of reason."
" Reason — ^with cannon balls I "

"Would you prefer it with thunderbolts, like your good
friends of the Vatican?"

** He alone has kindled more fires."
" Decidedly you have no indulgence but for the stake."
. • • • • • ' •

"You don't know?"

"What?" , . . .

" The Abbe de St. Marcelin has got a living !"

"Is it possible?"

" I have just heard him say so himself. A good one, he added . ' '

" He is a violent Encyclopsedist."

" What does that prove ?"

" That proves doubtless that he is a clever man. But" —

" Is it not better that this living should provide for a clever
man than if it fell into the hands of a fool ?"

"Yes. I foresee the time when the first requisite for
getting on in the Church will be not to believe in Qod.
Well, abb6!"

" I beg your pardon."

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 101

"IsthereaGod?"

^^ Certainly, since I am an abb^.''

• ••••••

^' Sir, the tradition is steadfiast and immutable* It was firom
Montmartre to St. Denis, to the spot where the abbey stands,
that the saint of that name carried his head in his hands/'

'^ No, sir, no. Beason does not allow us to admit of such
a long journey. A few steps, that is the fact. Is it not so,
Marchioness?''

" Why so, my dear counsellor ? We have only to make a
beginning"

" What is going on at Versailles?"

** No great things."

" What of the Marchioness ?"

" She is more in favour than ever."

" But it is said that the king looks more ennuye than ever."

^' She is only the more firmly settled. It is at those times
that he gives up everything to her."

" People talk of a great fete at Bellevue."

" Yes, on Tuesday."

**What of the Abbe de Narniers?"

" He continues preacher to the king."

^^ And the other preaches on Monday, is it not?

, " Monday, at St. Sulpice."

" Very good."

.......

'■'' That M. de Bufifon, with his grand style, is sometimes so
trivial!"

" Why, how angry you are !"

** Did you see him, just now, beside me ? — ^his legs crossed,
his head thrown back, his eyes half-closed. He really seemed
to think he was alone."

102 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

'* He was seekiDg after some phrase."

" Yes — stop^I tried to begin the conversation. I spoke
of his style, for you know one can speak of nothing else
to him. ^What a happy mixture/ said I, ^of depth and
clearness I ' My gentleman threw himself back a little fur-
ther. ' The devil I' he exclaimed, " when one has to purify
one's style, it is quite another thing 1" — {c^estune autre patre
de manchesi)*

"By the way, is it true that he never writes without
having a sword at his side, and lace ruffles on?"

" I think, between ourselves, that no one has ever seen him
at work with those famous ruffles on ; but" —

" But he is worthy to wear them."

" At all events, he should at least put them on when he
has to reply to a compliment."

" And, above all, to a ccnnpliment from Mademoiselle de
FEspinasse."

" That is one"—

" Which is but just. Do you know the one he made lately
to a friend who was reading verses to him?"

" No."

" ' It is very fine,' he cried out ; * as fine — ^as prose V **

"Was he laughing?"

" Not at all ; that ip his system."

"You will see that he will one day erect a statue to
prose."

" To Aw prose."

« • • • ■ . • a

" Sir, if the taxes were reduced to one-half their amount ;
if the strictest economy regulated the employment of them, we
should never pay them willingly, so long as the collecting of

* *' Ce0( one aatre pairerde maDches."— Tlie phrase is thus defined in the besl liMidi
^ctionaries— " Ceet une autre afiUre : ce n'est pas la mftma dbos^" — Trant.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 103

them is farmed out. So long as the people perceive, between
the treasury and themselves, those opulent functionaries,
manifestly enriched by the sweat of their brow, you will
never make them believe that it is for the state and not for
them that they toil. Knowing beforehand what portion goes
to government, every one is inclined to say— every one in the
lower classes does say, that what he has paid individually
will not increase, by a single sol, the sum employed for the
public necessities. The reasoning is bad, I agree ; but it is
certainly that of many, and this ought to be a sufficient
motive for removing all pretext for it. The collecting the
taxes should remain in the hands of government, and the
collector receive a fixed salary ; the poor must have the
assurance, in paying, that they pay to the state, and really
contribute their small share to the necessities of their
country."

" That poor Poinsinet 1* Will you never leave off turning
him into ridicule. Viscount?"

^^ Ha I ha 1 I think I see him still, reciting those BoB'
Breton verses that I gave him, for Russian I"

" He has talent, notwithstanding."

" Faith I his little piece, the Cercle, is one of the prettiest
that has appeared for a long time. But as to judgment, . he
has not a grain. A child might make game of him. He is
one of those beings bom to be mystified."

"To be what?"

" MysHfiedr

" The word is not of the Academy, that I know."

" I believe so. We fabricated it three months ago, still in
honour of Poinsinet, and the Academy has not the reputation
of being very prompt." <

* A dramatic writer.

104 PRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

** Hush I — ^there is Duclos listening to ns."

" Duclos is too clever not to think as we do. Is it not
trae, DucIqs, that the Academy does not move quickly?"

" Slow and sure,'*

" Yes ; but by dint of tardiness, people mar their fo^rtones
— ^in public opinion."

" At all events, it is not my fault."

" We know that. You urge on the machine, we know ;
you swear in the midst of the Louvre, loud enough to make
the very colonnade tremble."

"I?— Who says so?"

" Your colleagues — everybody."

"Ah I the dogs I— ah I the"—

" Hush I we are not at the Louvre. He is going to swear
to prove that be does not swear. You would have been the
very man for Cardinal Dubois."

" Thank you."

" Yes, indeed. You know that he used to swear on the
slightest contradiction at a terrible rate ; he lost precious
time by it. One of his clerks asked him if he would not
do better to have a licensed swearer."

" The office would indeed be quite as good as that of king's
fire-screen.

" The king's fire-screen ?"

" Yes ; another mystification — I beg your pardon — ^that we
made Poinsinet swallow. We told him that he was just
appointed to this brilliant office. Two days after, when we
thought no more about it, we heard he was ill, and of what ?
Of having roasted his legs by standing before a fiimace of a
fire, to accustom himself, as he said, to his duties."

• ••••••

" Madam, I fear I am indiscreet."
** Never mind ; say what it is."

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 105

"That charming letter which you were saying that you
had received from M. de. Voltaire ?''

"WeU?"

" Might I venture to ask to see it?"

" If you promise me to show it to nobody."

" To nobody— except those who commissioned me to ask
for it."

** So I am receiving a deputation, then?"

"A deputation, as you say. Here are Chamfort and
St, Lambert, commissioned to back me if necessary. This
letter"—

** Here it is ; but be prudent. Let no one hear it, you im-
derstand, except friends. There are certain things" —

" Do not be uneasy. Madam. Come, gentlemen ; there —
in the small drawing-room" —

" Bead it, St. Lambert."

" * Fernet, July 26, 1760.

" * Madam, — The eloquent Cicero, without whom no French-
man can think, always began his letters by these words : " If
you are well, I shall be glad of it ; as for me, I am well."

** * I am unfortunately the reverse of Cicero. K you are
not well, I am sorry for it ; as for me, I am not well. Happily
I have made a nest for myself in which I can live or die as I
please. I have bought land round my hermitage; I have
enlarged my sepulchre. Could I venture to think myself a
wise man, I should do so, I am so happy. I have only begun
to live from the day that I chose my retreat ; every other
kind of life would be insupportable to me. To you, Paris is
necessary ; to me, it would be fatal.

" * Would to (Jod, Madam, that you could live as I do, and
that the charms of your society might increase my happiness I
I congratulate you and President Henault on l)eing often
together, and consoling each other for the follies of the world.

106 PRANCE BEFOBE THE REVOLUTION.

** * You wish me to send you the works on which I am
engaged when I am neither ploughing nor sowing. In truth,
it is impossible, so much has my boldness increased with age.
I can no longer write but what I think ; and I think so freely,
that there is no likelihood of sending my ideas by post I
shall, however, have the honour of sending you one or two
new cantos of La Pucelle, that no one is acquainted with. If
you want a picture of this evil world, you will shortly find
one in my HUtoire Generate of the follies of mankind. I am
also engaged in drawing up for my own use, and perhaps
after my death, for that of honest people, my thoughts on this
world and the next, in alphabetical order. It will be entitled,
I believe, Dictionnaire Pkilosophtque,

" * The partial liberty with which people are beginning to
write in France, is as yet but a shameful slavery. Therefore,
you must get used to a scarcity of every kind of talent ; to wit
becoming common, and genius rare ; to an inundation of books
on war, while we are defeated ; on finances, while we have
not a sol ; on population, while we lack agriculturists and
recruits ; on all the arts, while we succeed in none.

" ' No invention, in fact, proceeds from us. In the arts, we
have been mere barbarians in comparison to the Italians. In
philosophy, it is only for thirty years past that the English
have taught us something good.

" * The Spaniards conquered a new world ; the Portuguese
discovered the way to the Indies; the Arabs and Turks
founded powerful empires ; my friend, the Czar Peter, creates
in the course of twenty years an empire two thousand leagues
in extent ; the Scythians of my Empress Elizabeth have just
beaten my King of Prussia, whilst our armies are repulsed by
the peasants of Wolfenbiittel.

" * We have the wit to settle ourselves in Canada, in the
snow, between bears and beavers, whilst the English have

PBIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 107

peopled, with their flourishing colonies, four hundred leagues
of the finest country in the world, and we are even turned out
of our Canada.

" * We build likewise, now and then, some ships for the
English ; but we build them badly. When they condescend
to take themi, they complain that we give them bad sailing
ships.

*' * Faith I our century is but a poor one I

" ' You ask me what you can read that is interesting. Bead
the Gazette, Madam; everything, in it is astonishing, like a
romance. You will see there vessels laden with Jesuits ; and
yet one is never weary of admiring that they have only as
yet been expelled from one kingdom. You will see there that
the French are beaten in the four quarters of the world ; our
ministers tumbling down, one after another ; our flat-bot*
tomed boats ; our descents — in the river of la Vilaine. You
will see — But you wish to read, say you, something else than
the Gazette. Well, I shall think of all that may amuse you.
For instance, " Infidelity refitted by simple good sense,'' by
dear brother Menou, confessor to King Stanislaus ; or, " The
Reconciliation of Religion and Intellect" — the Norman Recon-
ciliation, as some call it, by Bishop Pompignan, brother to the
academician Pompignan ; or — ^but you are in the midst of
aU these fine things, and it should rather be for you to send
them to me. There is, however, a pleasure preferable to all
that ; it is to contemplate the verdure of vast meadows, and
the growth of fine harvests.

" ' Forgive me. Madam, for speaking to you of a pleasure to
be enjoyed by the sight. You only know now those of the
mind.

" By the bye, is your digestion good ? I have coine to the
conclusion, after much reflection on the best of worlds, and
the small number of the elect, that people are only really

FBANCE BEFORE THE BEVOLUTIOK.

miserable when they caimol digeBt. After all, the important I
point is to close one's career gently. All the rest is biit|
vanity of vanities, as the saying is.
" ' Accept my affectionate regarde.

" Well, M. de la Condam
sionaries?"

'■ They are invaluable."

" You must tell us all about it."

" If you lite — but hush I There
there."

" From curiosity ?"

" Prom conviction, if you please. Let us go a little aside^"

" Very well. Yesterday, then, siBter Frances was to be
crucified."

■'Tobe"—

" Crucified, and in good earnest, I swear to you — a reall
cmsB — real, substantial nails I My bauds and feet ache i
the bare thought of what I saw. They pretend not fo Buffer J
and according to them, that is the great miracle."

" Who knows?"

" Who knows? I should like to see you try.
certainly, impossible that faith may diminish somewhat of tl
[lain ; but sister Frances suffered dreadfully, I promise yon
though she said nothing about it. Though she did not o
out, her contortions showed it well enough."

" And who was the executioner ? "

" The executioner — no ; the helper, as they say in theirj
jargon, for all these pretty little things, in the way of nails,
swords, kicks, or blows, they call helps — the helper, then, waa
Father Cottn of the Oratoire, assisted by Father Gnidi, a tall
thin man, in spectacles, who wearied himself with telling th« ■
patient that the nails did not hurt her,"

telling th«^H

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 109

" And what did the patient herself say ?"

" She diverted her mind by declaiming, in a language of
which I understood nothing, about the calamities of the
Church — as I was told, and the future reign of the saints."

^^ And did the saints clap their hands ?''

" No ; they only rubbed hers with a certain water prepared
by St Paris, their patron, which has, they say, the virtue of
taking away all feeling of pain."

" And how long did it last ?"

" More than three hours."

" And who had you there besides M. de Faillet?"

" M. de Merinville, his colleague in Parliament, M. de
Janson, an officer in the Eifles, M. de la Tour-du-Pin, M. de
Lafont St. Yenne, who went down on his knees from time to
time, bursting into tears; others besides"* —

• ••••..

" I tell you that M. de Voltaire is in jest, when he appears
to believe in the prodigious antiquity of the Chinese and the
Hindoos. Never did any man lie like that man. For in-
stance, his admiration for Confucius, of whom we know almost
nothing 1 and his adoration of Julian the Apostate, of whom
we know but too much I and his whim of pretending that
the Christians of the first centuries were scarcely persecuted
at all I Do you imagine that he believes all the absurdities
and abominable nonsense that he deals out in his pam-
phlets?"

" Not at all, I know very well ; but perhaps more than you
would suppose. By dint of repeating them, he gets convinced,
and then " —

" I understand. By dint of lying, he becomes sincere. A
sublime use, indeed, of language and intellect!"

* M. de la Condamine afterwards wrote an account of all he had seen in these strange
aaaembliei.

110 PBANCfE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

" Say what you please, but the antiquity of the Hindoos is
nevertheless"—

" Again — ^well, let us ask M. de Gtebelin — ^he was here a
minute ago. What has become of him ?"

" There he is — ^in that comer."

"Who is he talking to?"

" A person whose face I do not know."

PSIE8T8, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. Ill

CHAPTER VL

We have long known the face that was unknown to the
advocate of M. de Yoltaire and his ancient Hindoos. M. de
Gkhelin's companion was Eabaut. He had wished to take a
nearer view of that brilliant world, the various aspects of
which dazzled all Europe, whose least whisper imposed silence
on the past, and seemed to open out the future. Gobelin, who
was everywhere well received, had taken him wherever he
could see without being much seen, hear without himself
speakmg, and form his opinions in silence.

Seated alone in a comer, they had, during the last few
minutes, already reviewed all that the tide of company m
the drawing-room had brought under their notice.

" He whom you heard give his opinion on the antiquity of
the Hindoos, is one of those learned simpletons who would
deny that the sun shone at noon, provided M. de Voltaire
chose to deny it. His opponent is a Jansenist."

" I fancied I should only meet infidels here," said Eabaut.

" Observe that I said a Jansenist ; I did not say a believer.
Jansenism, in the present day, is often only a sort of decent
infidelity. Many are Jansenists, just as others are infidels,
from opposition or fashion; many, while they avow them-
selves to be infidels, belong nominally to the different religious
parties. *You are annoyed,' said Boindin to one of his
friends, ^ because you are a Jansenist atheist ; but I am left
in peace, because I am a Molinist atheist.' "

n3 FRAMCB M^PORE THE ^TOLCnON'.

" In that group yonder, yon recognise eeverfll of oM
friends of the other day— d'Holbach, DamilaYille, d'Alemhert, ■
Grimm."

" And M. HelvetiuB?"

" He haa received friendly hints not to show himself for I

"And Diderot?"

"He cannot keep within hounds. The Marchioi
hinted to him that she can dispense with his company. Ha |
comes at long: intervals, in order not to appear banished, I
which, in truth, he is not ; hut he himself prefers being more I
at liberty than he generally is here. The Marchioness it '
willing to be an unbeliever, hut not to break with religion
altogether. She has even tried, once or twice, to become a
devotee, for you know that Eomanists of the higher rankt
know no medium between fervent devotion, as they call it,
and infidelity. ' I am weary to death,' said she to those
about her; 'one must try a little of everything.' People
laughed, and at last she laughed herself. ' I shall wait to be'J
a little older,' said she ; and she is waiting."

" How old is she, then ?"

" Sixty-two or sixty-three."

" Who is that old gentleman whose attentions to her a.

" The Count de Pont-de-Veyle, her lover."

" Indeed I "

" Th.e person at leaat who has long held that ofSce. Noi^
thing, however, can he more innocent than their interoonrse, ai
it appears. A lover, in certain society, is like a necessary piao
of fiimiture. A shght varnish of scandal is absolutely nee
sary, even if people had in reality no taste for it ; it w
reputation, as patches on the cheeks set off the complex
' Do you not admire,' said Pont-de-Veyle to her lately, '

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 113

we have lived thirty years without one quarrel ?' ' My dear
Count,' said she, * it is because we never loved each other/
And yet it was she who reproached M. de Fontenelle with
never having loved any one. * It is not a heart that you have
there,' said she to him, touching his side with her finger ; ^ it
is a second brain.' I long thought that the same thing might
be said of her; but it appears that a certain Englishman,
LordWalpole"—

" He who was lately at Paris?"

" Yes."

" Had she known him in her youth ? "

'^ Not at all ; it was at sixty that she took it into her head
to be passionately in love with him. He laughed at her ; he
went so far as to tell her, in a letter that has become public,
that he did not choose, at forty, to be the lover of a woman of
sixty. She perseveres, and writes him, it is said, letters in
the most tender strain. The most curious part of it is, that
the public do not laugh at it. Madame du Deffant is in
fashion ; she is the friend and patroness of the great dictators
of opinion — that is enough ; she has a right to be an old fool,
and nobody either laughs at it or dissembles the matter. Be-
sides, observe, that it is for an Englishman that she lan-
guishes ; and in these times, the surest way to be popular in
France, is not to be French. All the men you see here, with
the exception of two or three, are admirers of the King of
Prussia. How could they disapprove of the admiration of the
mistress of the house for a noble lord who is a man of talent,
and has made pretty good progress in the ideas of the day ?
This last point, you may believe, is essential. Out of the pale
of infidelity, no salvation. What makes them puff the King of
Prussia ? Neither his talent as a writer, at which they laugh
privately, and sometimes even publicly, nor his liberalism in
politics, of which his subjects do not feel the effects in the

VOL. u. H

11:4 . PBANCB BEFORE THE BEVOLUnON.

least ; the true, the only motive is his infidelity. * His pro-
gresB,* say they, * is the progress of reason.' What do they
: mean by that ? Is it for the cause of infidelity that he makes
war ? Does he lay upon his conquered enemies the obligation
of becoming infidels? No; but he. is an infidel himself.
, That is enough. All his enterprises are just ; all the harm
he may do to France will be applauded by Frenchmen^ and
the only verses, I think, that M. d'Alembert ever made in his
life, are in his honour. It is the most odious folly of which
any people ever was guilty.

" Another passion in the direction of the opposite side of
the Channel is that of Mademoiselle de TEspinasse. It is
true that Sterne, her hero, is a grave Churchman, to whom,
J suppose, she has not many tender things to say ; but she is
infatuated about his book, and it will not be her fault if all
our writers do not set about making Sentimental Jowmeys
for her.

" The Count de Buffon, that I pointed out to you just now
at her side, is the impersonation of the great man and the
author. Few reputations are less contested than his : it is
said that Eousseau, who is always in extremes, one day kissed
the threshold of his study. He has a right to be proud of his
works ; but his pride is often without dignity : it is some-
what that of the upstart occupied with his title, or of the man
who has come into a fortune always thinking of his money.
Whenever he comes down from his altitudes, he is soon
vulgar, and even coarse. He is accused of not having the
respect for his fellow-labourers that their talents deserve.
There are two of them, Daubenton and Gueneau, who are
talking to him at this moment. Look how high he holds his
head, how he takes his stand between them with his gold
buckles in his shoes.

"You have heard M. de la Caille speak : he is one of tiie

PIUESTS, 1NFIDEL8, AND HUGUENOTS. 115

first astronomers of the age, always calculating, always dis-
covering, philosophizing very little, and studying all the
better. There is his colleague, Clairault, rather too much
inclined to forsake the heavens for the debates of this earth,
which will, I think, be the fault of his disciple Bailly, one of
those who cry up the ancient republics. Clairault is, for
all that, a great mathematician. The comet of last year, the
return of which he had calculated, has raised his reputation
with the learned, and brought him into fashion with the

ladies. He is talking just now to Well I why is that

lady screaming ? Oh I I know — ^he has opened his snuff-
box"—

"Who?"

" M. de Lalande, whom I was going to name to you. His
passion is for spiders" —

" Does he tame them ?"

^' Not at all ; he eats them. That box, which he calls his
snuff-box, is full of them. He has just taken one. Look, he
has torn off its legs I he is sucking them I Nothing can be
more succulent, he says. He is an excellent man, however,
but an incurable atheist.

" That group, in which they are speaking of taxes, is that
of the political economists. There is young Necker, of whom
I was speaking to you the other day at my house. There is
his friend Turgot, a man who thinks wisely, but a great
talker — ^less, however, than the sour Marquis de Mirabeau,
who would be here, doubtless, if he were not in the Bastile,
where he has been sent on account of his Thiorie de VimpSt^
There is Morellet, who has just come out of it, as you know :
he excels in clearing up the somewhat confused ideas of his
fellow political economists. It is quite a new science. The
founders of it, to begin with Quesnay, are as yet far from
having even laid down the first principles of it, or even of

116 FRANCE BEFOBE THE REVOLUTION.

having fixed the extent of the field it should occupy. These
gentlemen sometimes do me the honour to ask for information
on what was done in past times in these matters : they always
come to the conclusion — sometimes with a little bombast,
sometimes also with but too much truth — ^that there never
was a country so badly governed as ours.

" As for literary men, properly so called, all that I have
not yet named to you belong to that class, or desire to belong
to it. There is young La Harpe, to whom the literary world
has been thrown open, by two prizes in rhetoric, and who is
preparing a tragedy, Warmck^ of which his friends speak very
favourably. There is young Chamfort, also celebrated by his
college success, already forward in conversation, much sought
after, but little liked. One is Colardeau, deeply wounded by
the fall of his Caliste ; the other, Saurin, who has experienced
more than one reverse, and who, it is said, will soon rise
again by his Spartacus, There, in the chimney-comer, id
Barthe, a man of an original turn of mind, but an insigni-
ficant poet, not to say more ; and Suard, one of those men
who have acquired reputation nobody well knows why or
how ; and St. Lambert, whom Madame du Defiant has styled
" false and frozen," but in too high favour at Femey not to
be welcome everywhere : besides, he is rich, and has taken to
act the Mecaenas, which may be seen well enough by his ap-
pearance. The person to whom he is speaking just now is
Chabanon, formerly a devotee, now an EncyclopsBdist. Those
two gentlemen, who are talking at the other comer, are also
two of the Mec8?.nases of the day, the Marquis of Chastellux
and the Duke of Nivemais ; the former amiable and without
pretension ; the other aspiring to the title of author, writing a
little on every subject, never above mediocrity, and yet always
praised. He was just now with President Henault, talking of
the history of France ; he is now with Vanloo, chief painter

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 117

to the king, talking of painting, of course ; and what the
latter says to them to-night will be written by him to-morrow,
to be published the day after. The one who is coming up to
them at this moment is the Count d'Argental, the particular
friend and confidant of M. de Voltaire, the only man whom he
is known to consult about his works. That is saying enough,
I should think, to explain why he is so surrounded with re-
spect. The confidant — the adviser of the oracle I Some one
said, he has no equal in Europe but the Pope's confessor.

" As for abbes, you see they are not wanting, all excelling
in giving the lie to their habit, some by their infidelity, others
by their conduct, many by both at once. You have there the
Abb6 de Voisenon, the great opera writer ; there Abbe Eaynal,
the Diderot of abbes. There are some more, the Abbe de St.
Non ; the Abbe d' Ardigny ; the Abbe de St. Marcelin, so de-
lighted with his living, so surprised that it had been kept for
him, as if the Abbe de Bemis, who has been so much seen in
this drawing-room, had not just been made cardinal ; and as if,
after all, it were needful that an abbe should believe in God I
The Abbe d'Argenteuil, who does believe, took it into his
head to convert Diderot : people laughed at him ; and we
have seen no more of him here.

" Amongst the Jansenists, notwithstanding what I said to
you of them, there are some who strive hard to become true
believers. Did you hear those two gentlemen discussing
with such simplicity the legend of St. Denis ? Well, one of
them is a man of no importance, but the other is M. de la
Chalotais, the attorney-general, the enemy of the Jesuits.
Thus do the greater number of their leading men think and
act ; they resist the doctrines of their Church, and lend entire
faith to the most miserable superstitions I The deacon Paris,
as you just heard, has still more than one disciple. The
police are continually on the watch for those assemblies,

118 FKANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION^

where nails and blows do no harm, according to the adepts, :
so much does God delight in glorifying His saints I And when
one is discovered, some man is sure to be found there whose
position and education would have forbid us to suppose that
he could participate in these follies. It is, however, among
the Jansenists, with some few exceptions, that the few true
Christians that Eome has still in France must be sought for.
In vain would she renounce them; it is they, after all, who :
do her the most honour."

" With the ignorant," said the minister. " Is their Roman-
ism real? The Jesuits whom they proscribe, are the only
real and consistent Eomanists. It must be easy to make them
confess this."

"Easy, say you?" resumed Gobelin. "I have tried it a
hundred times ; a hundred times I have been convinced that
we must not reckon upon reason, even if we have to deal with
the most rational of mankind. One would think that there m
a charm in all false and logically untenable positions, which
makes people cling to them. The mind sets all its wits
to work to find out explanations, distinctions, and pretexts;
There is the pleasure of difficulties overcome ; the pride of
being out of the beaten track; there is — I know not what
beside. People cannot account for it, but they persist ; aaid
he who would argue with them loses his labour. Add to
that, the immense importance of the step to be taken by those
who would carry out consistency. The Gallican who should
confess himself not a Eomanist, would have after that but to
declare himself a Protestant. He might retain some of the
dogmas of Rome ; but he would retain them as we do oursi
while recognising the right to reject them as soon as they
appeared contrary to Scripture or conscience. There are few
Romanists who do not make use of this right. To be a Galil-
ean or a Jansenist is to have made use of it, and that freely }

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 119

l)ut to acknowledge and proclaim it is quite another thing.
People are afraid, they draw back, turn their heads aside, and
go to sleep again. Shall I make the experiment once
more?"

"OnM. delaChalotais?"

" No ; on M. de Faillet, whom I see yonder, one of the
most pious and sincere ; in. fact, the best Eomanist of those
who frequent this house. You will see with what a look of
pity he will shake hands with me, and how his face will seem
to say, Poor people I poor lost souls I "

" That is doubtless very charitable ; but how then must he
feel under the same roof with those gentlemen ? Does he
think us more decidedly lost than a d^Alembert or a d'Hol-
bach?"

" Not in reality ; but when these matters are in question,
he cannot help thinking much mote of us than of them.
They are lost sheep, for whom it is of no use to be anxious ;
we, he thinks, have but wandered from the fold. M. de Faillet
and his friends treat us on a small scale as the Government
does on a great. Be Christians in the king's way, or you
must go to the galleys ; cease to be Christians at all, and you
will be l6ft in peace. It is but one of the forms assumed by
a prejudice which is universal. The narrower the separation
that divides, the greater the antipathy and the warmer the
struggle. * But he is a Jansenist I ' said Loui6 XIV. one day.

* Indeed, Sire I I do not know if he even believes in God.'

* Oh I if that is the case — ," said the king ; and the favour he
would have refused to the Jansenist he granted to the infidel.
Such is the conduct of these same Jansenists as concerns us ;
we excite the horror of the more violent and the pity of the
more charitable. But only belong to the Encyclopaedia, and
you excite neither their pity nor their horror. There I how
the very man I speak of has just shaken handa with Grimm ;

120 FSANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

they have almost embraced each other. They are whispering"
together — ^but here he is, coming this way."

" Grood evening, M. de Faillet I " said Grebelin, as if he had
just observed him.

" Good evening, my dear sir, good evening.''

Eabaut could not help smiling. The tone, the shake of
the hand, the look — all, in short, was just what Gebelin had
foretold.

"What was my lord Grimm saying to you?" resumed
Gobelin. " He looked quite triumphant."

"As he always does, poor man, when he thinks he has
made me angry."

" Doubtless some impiety ?"

" A mere pleasantry. He is really fall of wit."

" How easily you take it I "

" How can I help it ?"

"You would not take a serious Protestant argument so
easily."

"Sir I"

" Perhaps you are more a&aid of it ?"

"Afraid?"

" Or is it that you care less about God than about the
mass ?"

" I care about both Gk)d and the mass, sir."
. "Very good."

. " And I shall prove it, I hope, if I publish my works. It
will be seen that" —

" Oh ! with the pen it is quite another thing. We have
time to combine our attack and defence ; to repress feelings
that are too warm, to sharpen those that are not sufficiently
so. I speak of your habitual and instinctive impressions."

" God alone has a right to judge them."

" God alone I— and the Church ?"

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 121

" The Church can have no right to judge what she has not
the power of knowing."

" That would, I think, sound ill in certain ears and in cer-
tain countries. Your Church has never acknowledged that it
was not for her to judge of the secret feelings of the heart.
That opinion alone puts you already in opposition to her."

" At all events, it is not for you to reproach me with it."

" Certainly not ; and all I ask of God for you, is that you
may make progress in this doctrine. You have already made
enough to cause us some surprise, when you appear to think
that you are so far removed from us."

" That is indeed the question," added Eahaut. " Some de-
tails as to the religious party to which you belong have just
been given me, sir, and I cannot in conscience help asking
why you do not belong to us ? For, after all, why are we not
Eomanists ? Our reasons may be reduced to three : first, that
which I may call hierarchical — we do not believe in the
authority of the Pope ; next, that which I may call doctrinal
— ^we will only have the Scriptures for our rule of faith ; and,
lastly, that which may be called moral — ^we leave to every
man the responsibility of his belief as well as of his actions.
These principles are yours."

" Ours I" exclaimed M. de Faillet.

" Yours. Do me the favour to listen."

" Suppose we were to sit down?" said Gebelin.

They went into an inner room, and sat down.

" Let us resume the subject," said the minister. " My three
points are in truth connected ; it would be useless to enlarge
upon them separately.

" With us, I say, every man is responsible for his belief.
With you, what do I see? — ^from Pascal to Quesnel, from.
Amauld to your leaders in the present day, an interminable
series of discussions and contentions. Is such, I would ask.

122 FRANCE BEFOBE THE BEYOLUTION. *

the spectacle that would be given by men really convinced
that they must entirely trost to the Churchy — ^take what she
gives, renounce what she takes away, approve what she
approves, and condemn what she condemns?. Either you
contend — which I do not admit — ^for the mere pleasure of
contending; or you feel yourselves responsible before Ood
for your beliefl

" Still more. Not only do you not appear to believe that
the responsibility of your Church sufficiently covers your own ;
but you assume, in certain cases, that of a formal resistance.
I have not now to examine the points on which you have
been condemned ; I confine myself to observing, that there
have been, and that there are, numberless sentences to which
you have never entirely submitted. When the Archbishop of
Paris, your lawful pastor, refuses you the sacraments ; when
the Pope approves the archbishop ; when the body of bishops,
with one or two exceptions, is unanimous against you — ^it is
impossible for me to comprehend in what sense you are still
the sons of a Church which pretends to speak in the name of
GJod, and which — ^you yourselves teach it when you bring
forward her voice against us — cannot err."

" We do not deny her authority," said M. de Faillet ; " we
confine ourselves to distinguishing between cases in which the
exercise of it is natural and legitimate, and those in which
there would be usurpation."

" There it is I But, sir, in God's name, what difference do
you see between us who always reject it, and you who reject
it when you please?"

" What I would it be the same thing, for instance, to deny
the king's authority altogether, or to resist it in cases of fla-
grant oppression?"

"Your comparison is not, and cannot be correct. The
strongest advocates in favour of royal authority never have

PBIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 12S

claimed for it infallibility. They grant you — and how could
they deny it ? — ^that the king may frame bad laws, give bad
commands, and have absurd ideas. Could any one say as
much of the Pope, without renouncing him ?''

" The Pope is not the Church."

"As you please; but what is the Church without him?
From the moment that his voice is no longer that of the
Church, where are you ? What are you brought to ? Where
is the Church ? How, when, and by whom does she speak ?
Every one may make her their organ ; every one may say
with equal authority what she may be supposed to teach, or
not. We, too, admit in this way the authority of the Church,
with this exception, that instead of resting, as you do, upon
what she teaches in the present day, we rest upon what she
taught in the first and second centuries.- We attribute to no
one, it is true, either the right or the power of telling us in-
fallibly what she then taught ; . but in like manner, if you do
not attribute to the Pope the right of telling you infallibly what
she teaches in the present day, to whom do you attribute it?
You are thus, like ourselves, brought to individual belief ; you
are thus labouring, each for himself, and on his own respon*^
sibility, to choose the religion that he ought to profess, with
the threefold assistance of the Scriptures, history, and con-^
science. I repeat, — -without the Pope, without an infallible
Pope, it is in vain that you. think otherwise than we do ; yoii
believe in virtue of the same principles as ourselves."

" What does it signify, provided we are in reality in the
truth, whilst you remain in error?"

" What does it signify? Sir, that expression is almost an
abjuration. You could not more clearly confirm all I have
just said. What does it signify? you say. What does it
signify how we arrive at the truth, provided we do arrive at
it? But, in this system, the Church is only a help to be

124 PRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

taken when we feel the need of it, and to be put aside, conse-
quently, so soon as we think we can do without her. She
becomes an authority to be consulted ; no longer the authority ,
in the absolute, complete, divine sense that all Popish writers
have given to this word. Once more, we have nothing to do
here with the consideration of results. From the moment that
you believe you have a right not to submit in everything, but
to examine, to determine yourself in what you will submit or
not, you have rejected the Popish principle. To reject the bull
Unigenitus, or to reject the Council of Trent, is all one.*^

" Come, come I It is easy to see that you do not know how
these things are considered amongst us."

" No, thank God, I do not know all the subtleties to which
y<*u are obliged to have recourse, in order to appear a Eoman-
ist, whilst you still reserve some rights for your reason and
conscience. Appear a Komanist I Do you even succeed ? You
do not deceive God ; but can you even deceive man ? Yes ;
those who are willing to be deceived ; those whose interest it
is ; those who dread the publicity of a clear and distinct ex-
planation. But do you deceive those who, like us, have no
appearances to keep up, or those who, like the Jesuits, would
have real and not merely nominal Komanists ? Do you hope
to deceive them ? When you are summoned to submit in pre-
sence of the bull Unigenitus^ and do not, what is the result of
your deliberation ? What have you to choose ? — yes^ or no.
* A bull,' say you, * is not a decree in council.' But you have
no permanent council that I know of."

" I beg your pardon," said M. de Faillet, " it is not assem-
bled, but it exists. When the body of bishops has admitted,
without objection, a decree of the sovereign pontiff, that de-
cree has the power of a law."

" Very good ; you could not better anticipate precisely what
I was going to say. A bull, according to you, has only tiie

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 125

power of a law when it has been received by the whole body
of bishops ; and the bull Unigenitus, you were going to add,
has not been so received. Bishops have objected — still object.
Yes, but how many ? It would therefore depend on a few,
on two or three, on a single one, to prevent a decree of the
Pope, received by all the rest, from being obligatory on the
Church I But then, what you say of bulls, might be said of
almost all the decrees of councils. Even at Trent, where
there were so many reasons for union, scarcely one was made,
which had not some bishops against it, often several, some-
times even a considerable number, — a quarter, a third of those
who voted. Do you reject those ? I am quite willing it should
be so ; but what is it then to be a Eomanist ? What right
have you to keep that name ?

" Everything, you see, everything brings us back to what
I said when I began. The true, the only Eomanists, are the
Jesuits. One day that the Pope's nuncio was at the Chan-
cellor d'Aguesseau's, at Fresnes ; * It is here, then,' said he,
*that you forge weapons against Eome?' *No,' said the
Chancellor, * shields for her.' The whole quarrel lies there ;
what the Jansenists call shields, the Ultramontanists call
offensive weapons; the Ultramontanists are right. At the
same Council of Trent, when the General of the order of the
Jesuits began to explain his theory of the infallibility of the
Pope, he obliged every one to agree that he and his were, if
not in the right, at least the supporters of the full and candid
application of the principle of authority. He showed clearly
that by refusing infallibility to the Pope, it is refused to the
Church also ; that if the right to disobey or even to examine
be arrogated to ourselves, on one point, there is no reason why
it should not be arrogated on all the others ; that between
Protestant and Jesuit, in short, there is but a fictitious, slip-
pery, and false medium. If all Jesuits had only the candour

126 FRANCE BEFORE THE SEVOLUTION.

of Father Lainez ! If they refosed, like him, the name of
Jtomanists, to all those who are not really snch I What aston-
ishment, what confusion would there be in your Church I But
no ; in proportion as they are violent against those who raise
the standard of revolt, so they are accommodating to those
who , keep it in their own hearts. They allow whoever calls
himself a Eomanist, to believe that he is one/'

"Why not?" interrupted M. de Faillet. "Why bring
anxiety into consciences animated by the best intentiona?
I did not expect to have to be the apologist of the Jesuits
here^ but nevertheless" —

" Listen to me. Either one thing or the other — ^it is
possible to be. saved without being a Eomanist, or it is not
possible. If it is possible, let those be left in peace who have
the courage and the candour to confess that they are not. - If
it is unpossible, it is treachery to leave those in error who
imagine themselves Romanists, and yet are either but half
Eomanists, or not at all, which in reality is the same thing."

" You are strangely arbitrary."

" Is it my fault ? All questions in your Church necessarily
assume that character. The best weapon to use against you —
I had almost said the best punishment to inflict upon you — ^is
to bind you down to your own principles, and to forbid your
deviating from them. If you violate them, you join us ; if
you hold to them, you remain side by side with those whom
you profess to abhor and oppose. Allow me, therefore, to say,
that it is no small encouragement to us, in our struggle
against Eomanism, to see it contemned by so many of its own
children. We are quite of one mind with the Jesuits on this
point. We consider that they are right, quite right in declar-
ing themselves the only Eomanists, the only persons consistent
in the application of Eomanist principles — ^the only heirs, by
right of their fidelity, to the divine promises which they jre-

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 127

fend were made to your Church. They can prove, that in
condemning them, she is condemned ; that in striking them,
she is stricken. Condemn I strike I We are not those who
would prevent you. But remember that the blow you aim
at them falls on yourselves I"

M. de Faillet appeared as if he had ceased to listen. In
his anti-ultramontane disputes, he had necessarily said to
himself aW. that Eabaut had just said, though perhaps indis-
tinctly. Like all Eomanists who were enemies of the Je-
suits, he had often been obliged to divert his attention from
the question, in order not to see where the greater part of the
.blows directed against them in reality fell. Like all Eoman-
ists who approved an enlightened faith, moderate liberty, and
sincere and honourable piety, it was only by closing his eyes
to many things, that he could, without falsehood, continue
to call himself a Eomanist.

But it is impossible to give up at once a delusion, without
which, it is evident that there would be nothing further to do
than to lay down one's arms. The heart is wonderfully skil-
ful in preventing the understanding from going to the bottom
of these questions. The understanding, it is said, is often the
dupe of the feelings. We would add, that still oftener, if not
their dui>e, it is their slave. There was no possible termina-
tion to the discussion. Happily it was interrupted by an
incident.

" Gentlemen," said a servant, who was going from room
to room to assemble the scattered guests ; " it will begin
immediately. The Marchioness takes the liberty of requesting
attention and silence."

" What is it ?" said Eabaut.

" Some reading," said Gebelin.

" Why this request ? — do people talk while reading is going
on?"

128 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

" That depends on circumstances. K the reader is of their
coterie, you might hear a pin drop ; if not, they are by no means
particular. A few days ago, a young author, whose name,
I think, was Bemardin, was reading to us the first pages of I
know not what little novel. It was really very good ; rather
weak, but exquisitely natural. The whole thing, besides, was
rather new, for it was about the Isle of France, where our
writers have not as yet gone to search for new ideas. All at
once, the gentlemen present began to consider this nature as
too simple, too creole — ^in short, too natural. * Tell them to
put my horses to the carriage I ' said M. de Buffon, in his most
pompous tone of voice ; and the poor reader stopped short a
minute after. But, come, gentlemen ; everybody is already
in the drawing-room."

The drawing-room presented rather a singular appearance.
" What is going to take place ?" people asked. " We do not
know," said some. " Wait a little," said others. Evidently
something was preparing.

The surprise was indeed great, in every respect, which
awaited the usual frequenters of the house that evening.

The H6tel de Eambouillet, although it no longer existed
for more than a centuiy past, had left powerful recollections
behind it. People laughed at its pretensions ; and yet twenty
other houses set up for quite as much. .

Madame du Deflfant, in particular, did all she could to con-
tinue it. If anything could be invented which might make
the inheritance more direct, and the resemblance more dis*
tinct, she was eager to adopt it.

One day, while counting on her fingers all the celebrated
persons who had made their d^but at her house, she began
to reflect that no preacher had as yet received there that
baptism of fame which had been bestowed on Bossuet and
some others in the old drawing-room of Eambouillet.

PRIESTS, INFroELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 129

This idea pursued her. Devotion — for we have seen that
she had sometimes certain tendencies in that direction— chimed
in with vanity. After having patronized so many infidels, it
would be a sort of expiation to patronize a religious man — one
who, at least, wore the appearance and the garb of religion.

But where could such a man be sought for ? He must be
young enough to give her all the honour of having formed
him, and old enough, on the other hand — above all, talented
enough — to be at once taken up by the public.

" I have found him I " said the never-failing friend, Pont-
de-Veyle, one day, at last. " It is a young man from the
Comtat-Venaissin, a shoemaker's son. Ne sutor ultra ere-
ptdam, you will say. But it is not the case ; I think he is
a man to belie the truth of the proverb. When quite newly
landed at Paris, he was asked the other day what he had come
for. * To look for my hat,' said he. The Cardinal de Rohan
laughed a good deal, I was told ; he called him his colleague
in embryo. Let us watch his growth, and then " —

"How old is he?''

" Sixteen or seventeen."

« He is but a child."

" You might think he was twenty. Besides, that was
Bossuet's age when he made his appearance at the H6tel
de Rambouillet.

" Yes ; but Bossuet — ^Bossuet — ^was Bossuet."

"Bossuet, at that age, had certainly neither more confi-
dence in himself, nor more address."

" He had perhaps more faith."

" That is not my concern."

" Profane man I "

"Devotee!"

" Hold your tongue. What is his name ?"

" Maury."

VOL. II. 1

130 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

" Maury — Abbe Maury I "

" He is not an abbe yet."

" I suppose so. I am only trying the effect. Abbe Maury,
Cardinal Maury. Yes ; the name sounds well. Decidedly
he is a man to push forward. Let us push him forward.
Shall we make him extemporize a sermon?"

" A sermon ! — Would you" —

*' Why not? You know that was Bossuet's debut."

"Yes; but"—

"What?"

" A sermon before certain gentlemen. Before d'Holbach —
before Diderot, perhaps?"

" Without naming you."

" Without naming me, in truth. An edifying audience,
faith!"

" That will show us whether the orator is a clever man."

" I understand you. If he acts his part as a Christian,
without attacking those who are not such, we adopt him ; if
he thinks himself obliged to thunder against unbelievers, we
shall say to him, * My good fellow, depart in peace. Go and
be a village priest, and God be with you I ' That is quite
understood, is it not?"

" Quite."

The very next day, a new guest appeared in her drawing-
room — a young man with a high forehead and a piercing eye,
who, in two hours, put himself at ease with all the authors
and noblemen he found there. Where did he come from?
No one would have ventured to guess by his appearance.
Everything in him announced, at once, the man of the world,
and the man of the people, the aristocrat and the plebeian —
a happy mixture, which takes alike with the great and the
little ; with the latter, because every kind of greatness over-
awes them ; with the former, because they themselves become

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 131

little before that energetic self-possession, which is only to be
met with in the ranks of the people. This obscure individual
was the same who was to be heard for twenty years after, witty
in the pulpit, and an infidel in the drawing-room ; the same
who was destined to pass his youth at the feet of Voltaire, his
old age at the feet of Napoleon — ^not, it is true, without
having manifested real courage and real eloquence more than
once, during the perils of the Revolution. It was SiflBrein.
Maury, the future Cardinal Maury.

He had accepted with joy, with enthusiasm, the proposal of
a trial which might raise him higher in a moment than ten
years of persevering eflfort ; no fear, no agitation even marred
the prospect. His patroness asked him, " Are you not afraid
of stopping short?" "Pshaw, Madam," answered Maury,
"can one stop short?" The age he lived in was embodied in
that reply. To know everything, to say everything, had been
for forty years past the desire, the object, the folly, or the
glory, as we please, of that society of which he was destined
to be one of the last, but one of the most perfect representatives.

An evening had at length been fixed, and that eveniug
had arrived. It was long before Gebelin and Rabaut under-
stood what was going to take place. The initiated continued
to smile without answering. We may be allowed to suppose
that discretion was not their only motive for silence. At the
H6tel de Rambouillet in 1644, a sermon was only singular ;
at Madame du Deffant's in 1760, a sermon was ridiculous.
Few people were willing to be mixed up with it. At last it
might be judged by the attitude of the assembly that the secret
was no longer a secret for anybody. Some were laughing,
others shrugging their shoulders; some — the most sincerely
religious, and the most candid infidels, were going away.

Great was the embarrassment of many when asked to
point out a text, that the orator might draw lots. The Scrip-

132 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

tures were only known by two descriptions of persons at that
period; the disciples of Jansenins, who read them for their
own edification, and a little also for the pleasure of disobeying
the Pope ; and the disciples of Voltaire, who studied them
to turn them into ridicule. " Must we not," he said once,
"know the Factum of our adversary?" Moderate infidels,
people of the world, respectable people in general, kept aloof
from them ; and what Voltaire said of Pompignan's hymns
might have been said of the sacred writings: —

" Sacred they are, for no man touches them."

Many a whisper was therefore heard in the drawing-room.
" A text, if you please — a text I " And those who had more
than required for their own use generously gave to their
neighbours. " Is that right?" people asked. " Yes, nearly."
And from these reminiscences were brought out pretended
verses to make Sacy, Martin, and all ancient and modem
translators, Romanist or Protestant, tremble. Others wrote
down boldly, imagining they quoted the Bible, some of the
theophilanthropic adages of the day. "Christ was the
martyr of liberty." "Hell is the heart of the wicked."
" Gk)d wills the happiness of all." " But, sir," said the mi-
nister to one of his neighbours who had just written down
the latter sentence, " that is not in the Bible." " That is not
in the Bible ? Indeed I — well, so much the worse for it."
And he threw his verse into M. de Pont-de-Veyle's hat, who
was busy collecting the papers.

The orator, however, had just come in. As the moment
drew near, he had at last experienced the beginning of agi-
tation. Not to stop short is a great deal ; but there are
people enough who do not stop short, and yet who weary their
hearers. Could he flatter himself that he should have a text
which might not condemn him — ^in spite of all his talent and

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 133

all his assurance — ^to weary his hearers ? And if the subject
was decidedly too Christian to admit of its being at all reason-
ably /^AifesopAiz:^^ .' And if — but his uncertainty did not last
long. He plunged his hand into the hat. A deep silence pre-
vailed.

"What hast thou that thou didst not receive? Now if
thou didst receive it, why dost thou glory?"*

Such were the words written on the paper that he had just
taken. But at a glance he foresaw how embarrassing would
be the why at the close. Humility I he did not desire to
preach it, any more than his audience to hear it ; he therefore
only read the first line aloud — "What hast thou that thou
didst not receive?" It was still humilit}'^, but humility un-
der a form that allowed of his scarcely mentioning it. He
therefore scarcely said a few words upon it in his exordium ;
and even those few words were only there to conceal the turn-
ing aside of the subject. " It is to God that we owe every
thing. By our faculties we participate in His nature. His in-
tellect, and all His perfections. Thence those numberless prodi-
gies that man performs in the arts and sciences, and in every
path that Providence has opened out to him." Such was the
substance of his beginning — an able introduction to a magnifi-
cent picture of the greatness of the human intellect.

Presented under this form, there was no subject in the
world more to the taste of the day, and especially to that of
the audience whom Maury had before him. The eighteenth
century incontestably thought much, discovered much, and
accomplished much ; but also, never century was so openly
the admirer of its own thoughts and works. Those who lived
in it sometimes confessed it themselves. " It appears to me,"
said Grimm,-}- " that the eighteenth century has gone beyond
all others in the praises it has so liberally bestowed on itself."

* 1 Cor. It. 7. t Correspondence, January 25, 17ff7.

134 USANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

Ours, to do it but justice, is more modest. Individual prid0
is the same; general pride keeps within more moderate
bounds. The more improvement is rapid and progressive,
the more we feel that it would be folly to say we have at-
tained to perfection. Then men thought they were about to
attain it. Superior or inferior men, all chimed in with this
universal chant in which man gave honour to man ; all joined
hands in this triumphal and noisy dance round his pedestal.

The youthful voice that took its part in this stunning con-
cert that evening did not want, however, for grandeur and
dignity. The only fault of the sermon was the pretension of
being one at all. Never had the picture of the progress of
the century been more brilliantly or forcibly drawn. The
surprise was great ; attention eager. In his rapid review of
all that had been done for a hundred years past, there was not
a word, not a touch, but was calculated to win for the orator
the suffrages of some one of his hearers. Artist, philosopher,
man of science or of letters, by turns, he spoke to each his own
language ; like a sovereign who scatters rewards on his path,
he knew how to give to each as he proceeded what was best
suited to his taste or his pride. He named no one, he pointed
out no one, and yet all eyes continually turned from him in
the direction of those whose labours he exalted. He gave to
each time enough to enjoy his own glory ; he made all enjoy
the honour of forming a part of the splendid whole.

" What labours I " said he, " what triumphs I How has
the field open to our predecessors been enlarged ! Formerly,
it was at the decline of a long life, and hardly then, that a
series of probable changes and improvements were opened out
to view ; now, from year to year, almost from month to month,
every boundary recedes, every kind of treasure is increased.
Earth has no depths, the heavens have no heights, whither the
eye of man may not penetrate. Ye wandering stars, think no

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 135

longer to terrify us by your caprices ! Your path is traced
out. We shall await you henceforward, as we await the most
docile of your companions. Four elements were left to us
by our predecessors ; we shall leave forty to our successors.
Bring us some plant, that none have yet seen, from the extre-
mities of the world, we shall recognise it ; we shall tell you
its place in the vegetable chain. Go, seek out, in the depths
of the mines, a shapeless stone, a detached bone ; we shall
make that stone relate the history of the globe ; we shall re-
store life to that bone, and with it shall raise before you all
the generations of beings that have preceded us in the uni-
verse.^'

Thus did the young and brilliant sophist express himself;
thus did the incense of his warm imagination bum on the
altar of the eighteenth century. He ceased. His discourse
had lasted nearly an hour. The pride of all had been flat-
tered ; the triumphs of all sung. Could his success l)e doubt-
ful ? Like those flatterers who, after having exhausted the
language of praise, at last throw themselves on their knees to
thank God for the virtues of their idol: "0 God I" he ex-
claimed, " this is what our century has received at Thy
hands ! Thou hast chosen it to shine amongst all ages, like
the cedar of Lebanon amongst the bushes that surround it,
like the lily amidst the humble plants upon which it looks
down, and on which it sheds its fragrance I Fly henceforth,
fly, ye clouds I The reign of intellect is come I Man has
escaped from thraldom I Let him advance I — and the infinite
itself will bow before his triumphant steps I" The enthu-
siasm was great; and even Buffon himself pressed forward
through the crowd to congratulate the orator.

13G PRAZ^CE BEFOKE THE REVOLUTION.

CHAPTER VIL

Two days after, about the same hour, in a retired chamber
at the archbishop's, another orator was trying his strength at
the art of oratory, one which is either the highest or the
lowest of all that exist. He was not a beginner : his first
attempts had been made forty years before, and nevertheless :
" Never," murmured he, " never did I feel as I do now I To-
morrow I — ^to-morrow ! — at St. Sulpice. All Paris will he
there, they say. All Paris, indeed I — all their Paris — that
mixture of false glitter, and infidelity, and vice. Paris —
aU Paris ! And what shall I say to these people ? It is to-
morrow — and nothing is ready. Nothing there — ^nothing
worth."

And as he spoke, he pushed from him some sheets of paper,
carelessly written, crumpled, torn, covered with erasures and
blots.

" But why," resumed he, " why have I taken the fancy to
write ? Am I made for setting phrases in order ? Is it at
sixty that I can learn how to do it ? Let me see, however —
let me see — I have lost two days in this way: my labour
must at least be turned to some account."

He drew back the sheets towards him.

" This exordium — let me see.

*' ' At sight of an audience so new to me, the astonishment
that I feel is only equalled by the fear of being too far below

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 137

what is expected from me.' I — me — me — self three times in
one sentence. Would that happen to me in speaking ? But
let me go on — I shall correct afterwards.

" ' How can I begin but by soliciting your indulgence ?
Grant it to me — ' Well I once more. * Grant it to me, my
dear brethren. I am but a poor missionary. What right
had I to present myself before you ? Forgive' — "

"Falsehood I'* cried Bridaine ; and this time the papers
flew to the other side of the table. " Falsehood and coward-
ice I Could I write that ? Could I — My God I my pen has
been false — ^like so many others I My mouth would not have
been so — my heart still less. I have written it, however —
I have written it. And even if I bum these sheets, I shall
not the less have written them. And I have spent hours
upon them I And, miserable man that I was, I saw only
a few words to correct I But where was I then ? What was
I thinking of ? Excuse myself? Ask pardon? What right
had I to present myself before you ? What right ? You shall
see it inscribed on my forehead, infidels I"

But suddenly a cloud seemed to pass across that very fore-
head where he felt that his right as minister of Qt)d was
written. He bowed his head ; he was silent. His eyes seemed
as though they sought to penetrate some depth : that depth
was his own heart.

" Yes," resumed he, " yes ; I see it. And God has seen it
already. It is not my pen only that is guilty. Yes — the
poor missionary has been afraid. He saw himself appearing
before these great lords and fine ladies, with his rough voice,
his abrupt gestures, and all the exterior of a peasant. He
made himself little, God I — he forgot that when Thou art
with us, we must always be great. Yes; I was afraid — I
thought of myself — of — forgive me, my God I — of my repu-
tation — of the disappointment that might be felt in hearing

138 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTIOX.

me. Miserable I miserable ! even now is it quite sure that T
no longer think of it?"

He remained long absorbed in this painful examination, his
eyes fixed and his hands hanging down. The hours struck
solemnly and slowly from the towers of Notre-Dame ; but no
sound reached him. At last twelve o*clock struck. At the
first stroke, as if that solemn hour had vibrated differentlv
from the others, through the galleries of the palace, Bridaine
had risen. He listened ; he counted.

" Midnight I" said he. " It is no longer to-morrow ; it is
to-day I Yet a few hours, and I shall see them — there —
crowded round my pulpit. My God I my God I once more,
what shall I say to them?"

He sank back on his seat. But before him, on the same
table from which he had swept his sheets of paper, a book
remained. On the well-worn parchment of the coarse cover
might be read :—

" Vox dicentis^ Clama, Et dixij Quid clamabo f

" Clama ; ne cesses. Quasi tuba exalta vocem tuam ; et
annuntia populo meo scelera eorum^ et domui Jacob peccata
eorumJ^*

He himself had written these words. He loved to have
them before his eyes. As ambassador of Christ, this was his
letter of credit ; as champion of the faith, it was his motto ;
and in his moments of discouragement, it was his consolation
and strength. He took the book, and, without opening it,
kept it long upon his knees, his eyes fixed on the encouraging
yet terrible inscription.

" Quid clamabo .*" murmured he. " Yes. * What shall I
cry?' Alas I Isaiah spoke thus before me; Moses before
Isaiah. They too, before going to their work, — ^they too
trembled. Come, let me take courage I Why should He who

• I8ai&hzl6; Mil. 1.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 139

sustained them, abandon me ? Let me see. Where is my
text ? Let me read it over once more. — ^And God will do the
rest."

He opened the book — ^it was the Bible — and his finger soon
stopped at the verse that we saw him choose at Gebelin's, in
the page saved from the fire. Then, with more confidence,
he repeated : —

" Quid clamabo f Here is that which I shall cry I * God
hath appointed a day in the which He will judge the world.'
He hath appointed a day. Yes — that is what I shall say.
Appointed! — appointed I When? It matters not. There is, in
the course of ages, a day appointed, irrevocably appointed, in
which you shall appear before God. There is a day when all
your crimes will appear before you, written, written for eter-
nity in the flaming book of justice, in the book — No, they are
familiar with these fearful images. I mean to show them
that this book is their own heart ; that it is there they will
one day see, as by a flash of lightning, all the falsehoods and
vices that they are heaping up there. God will judge — ^yes ;
but not as man judges. He will have but to restore to the
wicked the consciousness that they have lost, and each will
become at once his own accuser, judge, and executioner.
Appointed 1 — appointed 1 See it, as it advances, surrounded as
yet by mists, but certain, inexorable, the day that you will be
plunged into the abyss I Do you see it — My God I do I my-
self contemplate it suJBficiently ? Have I myself sufficiently
felt that terror which I desire to impress upon others ? Have
I often enough said to myself that Thou wilt weigh in the
eternal balance my weaknesses, hesitations, all — even to the
very words that escape from me at this moment !"

He was again silent. His clasped hands had fallen upon
the book ; his forehead had sunk upon his hands ; his eyes
were closed. Soon, under the double pressure of fatigue and

140 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

meditation, he fell asleep, but it was that half slumber in
which the activity of the body seems transferred to the mind.

He then felt as if transported into another world, where all
the false virtues, all the vices and crimes that he had con-
demned in the present, were brought to life again under visi-
ble forms. He recognised them by the very lineaments under
which he himself had depicted them. It was no longer earth ;
it was not hell. These spectres were neither joyful nor sor-
rowful. They advanced in silence, their eyes fixed as it were
on some object. Some brandished axes, others affected to
show their hands unarmed, and yet a hidden poignard might
be perceived under the graceful folds of their girdle.

And these spectres went on, and on, as those who have
busmess on their hands. And Bridaine went on and on
along with them, as those do who have something to see.

And a sort of psalmody from above mingled with the steps
of these demons.

" He hath made the winds his angels, the flames his mes-
sengers.

*' He hath visited kings, because kings have sinned.

" He hath punished the nations, because the nations have
sinned.

*' Sow, sow the wind, and ye shall reap the whirlwind.

" Sow, sow death, and ye shall reap death.

" He hath made the winds his angels, the flames his
ministers."

But the spectres listened not. They went on, on stiU ; and
those who bore axes brandished them yet more boldly ; and
those who had poignards drew them ; and out of the heart of
the mists whither they all plunged in confusion, a lofty and
majestic statue, on a high pedestal, rose up.

Over its head, in letters like stars, might be read,

LIBERTY.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 141

And upon the rock that supported it,

GOD.

Then they fell on their knees before it, and all cried out :
" Liberty, come to us, come to us I Come down ! come down ! "
— but the statue remained motionless. Then they rushed
against the pedestal, and all cried out ; " Throw it down *
throw it down I " — but the pedestal remained unshaken. Then
all the hatchets were raised, and all cried out ; " Break it in
pieces I break it in pieces!" — but the hatchets were blunted
against the hard granite ; the name of God was lighted up by
the sparks that flew out of the resisting stone at its contact
with the iron.

" Brethren," said one of those who worked, " what shall
we do?"

" What shall we do?" they repeated.

" Brethren," resumed he, " let us begin by raising another
pedestal."

Then they set to work. Some brought materials, others
built, others erected round the statue the scaffolding by means
of which they purposed to take it down. And from the top
of the scaffolding, some cried, "Is it ready?" And those at
the bottom answered, " No." Then they hastened to over-
turn another throne, or another altar. And they brought the
fragments and piled them all up together ; and at last they
reached the height of the former pedestal. And upon the
different sides of the new one, which they had made to imitate
granite, they wrote —

Honour. — Patriotism. — ^EguALirr. — Fraternity.

Then, amidst the acclamations of the crowd, they took down
the statue, and carried it in triumph to its new pedestal ; they
placed it there. But instantly it shook, leaned forward, and
fell ; and the fragments mingled with those very fragments of

142 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

which they had thought to make a throne for it ; and a plaint-
ive voice from above responded to the noise of the earth that
had been shaken —

" Wo, wo to those that trust in man I

" They have thought to seat Liberty on the virtues and
triumphs of man. It is fallen, and great has been its ruin.

" Wo, wo to those that trust in man I"

Then there was a great division amongst those who had
accomplished the work. Some threw away their hatchets, and
clung to the granite that they would have overturned. They
struck their penitent foreheads against it; they kissed it
piously. To those, a voice within said, that henceforth
Liberty should have its seat in their hearts. Others had
closed their eyes, that they might not see ; and had stopped
their ears at the first sound of the voice from above. They
were condemned to search for ever. They sought then, they
sought for ever. They searched amidst the ruins with their
hatchets, and the fragments of Liberty shivered, like the rest,
beneath the blind fury of their blows. And a mist, which
increased continually, rose up around them. And they were
heard to curse each other ; and to the sound of curses succeeded
the sound of arms ; to the sound of arms, cries and tears ; and
then, a fearful silence.

And in the darkness might be descried, as it were, a statue
seated. Its feet were bathed in blood. Its left hand held
chains ; its right, a sceptre of iron.

It was Despotism, seated in peace upon the ruins of all
right and all tnith. Now it might be seen wearing a royal
crown, now a red cap, now its rags changed to purple robes,
its purple robes to rags. The sceptre alone was always of
iron. And a powerful but plaintive voice, like that of a mul-
titude of nations, rose from time to time. " How long, Lord I "
it said, " How long ! *'

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTfJ. 143

And the answer came immediately : — " Repent and be con-
verted, and ye shall find rest for your souls." But the multi-
tude listened not ; and Bridaine repeated, after the voice from
on high, "Repent and be converted!" And the voice re-
sumed, " Will those hearken to man who have not hearkened
toGrod?" And Bridaine cried yet louder, "Repent and be
converted 1"

But nothing could now be seen but an awful confusion.
All things seemed to change their names; good was called
evil, and evil good. Truth lent its aid to falsehood, falsehood
to truth. People spoke, but they no longer heard each other
speak ; they touched each other, but without being able to
see. And all things were rolled together in an awful whirl-
wind ; and Bridaine held, terrified, by the book on which he
had leaned his head. And when his eyes opened again at
last, he saw nothing by the light of his almost extinguished
lamp, but these words of the burnt paper : — " God hath ap-
pointed a day in the which he will judge the world."

Whilst the preacher was watching and praying at the arch-
bishop's, others were watching at St. Sulpice ; but they were
not praying.

Many people of rank had sent their servants to pass the
night in the church. This was the only way to secure seats
on great occasions ; besides, it was the fashion, and that was
reason enough. That share indeed, which fashion cannot but
have in matters of religion, is naturally greater in proportion
as the times are less religious, and religion is more a matter of
propriety and outward form than anything else. This obser-
vation, though in itself just, has not always been well applied.
It has been agreed, for instance, to attribute to fashion all the
piety, or outward appearance of piety, that there was in France
during the latter years of the reign of Louis XIV.

That Louis XIV. encouraged, and if needful, even com-

144 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

manded these manifestations, is a fact. It is well known wliat
the influence of a king can do, above all of a king like him,
whom fashion herself, the most independent of all powers,
was accustomed to obey. It is, however, going rather too far
to attribute to him all the devotion and devout persons that
appeared at the close of his reign. Under the outward ex-
hibitions that were commanded, there existed some reality, — we
will not say of piety, but of pious habits, and feelings easily
touched. All those people who communicated publicly to
please Louis XIV., we may be sure, would have done the same
thing — secretly perhaps, and with some embarrassment — ^but
still they would have done it for their own sake, or for the
sake of their wives and children.

Let us not forget, either, that these external forms long sur-
vived the old king. After all that we know of the infidelity
and immorality of the last century, we have some difficulty in
imagining the churches otherwise than empty, the priests
laughed at, and the ceremonies of public worship turned into
ridicule. It would be a complete mistake. People had
ceased, it is true, to aifect religious sentiments, for they would
have gained nothing by it but ridicule ; but outward religious
duties were generally as well attended to as ever. Only pro-
fessed infidels, and their numbers were small, had broken off
all intercourse with the Church. Even amongst them, very
few on their deathbeds refused to be reconciled to her ; many
did not wait till it came to that. The same people who
laughed at the mass in the evening attended it next morning,
talked impiety with libertine abbes, and theology with sincere
priests. They confessed to the latter the follies they had been
guilty of with the former. And as for the most easy of all
religious duties — hearing a sermon, it was but natural to take
care not to miss it, provided the preacher had the reputation
of a man of talent or an eccentric man.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 145

The latter kind of reputation, as we have seen, was that of
Bridaine. For some days past he had been much talked of;
both his good qualities and his defects had, therefore, been
magnified proportionally in the imagination of the public.
Those who had heard him at Versailles wished to hear him
at Paris ; those who expected him at Paris, sighed for the
moment when they should see him in the pulpit.

According to his custom, he was to preach at night-fall,
and the church from mid-day had been full. The chairs
had been let out by the persons whose office it was, at
prices that were raised from hour to hour. Many who had
come there in order to speculate, offered theirs, happy to
sell at a crown what had cost them a quarter of a livre ; and
more than one honest citizen, after having long hesitated
between God and mammon, had ended by allowing him-
self to be seduced by the louis-d'or of the Marquis or of the
financier.

The assembly, therefore, by this time comprised only the
rich, the great, and men of letters, even in the seats the
farthest off. Helvetius, whom no one could surpass in the
art of making himself everywhere at home, had hired a whole
chapel, and was gallantly doing the honours of it to all the
philosophers, artists, and literary characters that he could
perceive amongst the crowd. As we see, he paid little atten-
tion to the order of waiting a month or two before reappearing
in public. But who did obey in those times ? A few insig-
nificant individuals at the utmost.

On all sides conversation was going on actively, but no
where so actively as in the aforesaid chapel. What is there to
do in a church but talk^ for such people as Helvetius, Grimm,
d'Holbach, and tutti guantif They appeared, indeed, suffi-
ciently astonished to see themselves there. At each new arri-
val, it might have been guessed by their looks, that the first

VOL. II. K

14:6 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

words interclianged invariably turned upon their mutual
surprise.

"Well?"

"WeU?"

"You took holy water, 1 suppose?"

" Yes, indeed."

" And made the sign of the cross ?"

" Yes."

" Very edifying."

" One must follow the fashion."

"And make a fool of one's-self with fools ? By no means."

" There is some one in that confessional, I think."

" It is that Maury — ^you know — of the other evening."

" Ah I How do you do, M. Maury ? I have not as yet

complimented you."
"Sir I"
"But how thoroughly you have settled yourself! Paper,

pens" —

" I am going to try to write the sermon."

" Not a bad idea."

.......

" A thousand thanks, sir ; I was very ill off in that mob.
Thanks to you, I have one of the best seats."

" I am glad to have had it in my power to serve you."

" You are in the habit of serving your friends. Who have
you lodged in that little seat apart ?"

"Where?"

" There, on the left."

" I had not even observed it. It seems, indeed, that some
one has just been shown there."

Who was this some one ?

PBIE8TS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 147

About two hours before this conversation, a carriage, with
Richelieu's arms, had left Versailles at a quick trot, conveying
the Maarshal and the king. The preparations for this frolic
had saved him two or three days of his habitual ennui. The
Marchioness, though informed of it by Richelieu, had acted
ignorance admirably. The king had received, with visible
satisfaction, her compliments oh his good spirits, and his good
spirits had increased from hour to hour, from the very idea
that he had succeeded so well in avoiding all suspicion.

As he rarely failed paying, for the few moments of comfort
he had succeeded in enjoying, by a double measure of ennui, he
had scarcely set out before his countenance darkened. Every
thing changed its aspect in his sight. He had been amused
at escaping from the Marchioness ; and now he asked himself
bitterly, what a king was worth who needed to escape from a
woman, like a schoolboy from his teacher, or a slave from his
master. He had enjoyed this sermon in prospect as a party
of pleasure, and now the serious part of the thing appeared to
him in all its reality. What was he going to do at Paris ? To
hear threatenings that would terrify him, but would not
make him change his life ; warnings that could teach him
nothing new as to the state of his soul, and would, after
all, only serve to make him still more inexcusable before
God. For a long time past, he had despaired of his own
strength; he had no longer the resource of saying to him-
self that he would one day change his life — a resource which,
though often deceitfril, is at least consoling. Such as he was,
such he felt that he must appear before God, as an indolent
king, a man loaded with vices, a heart completely seared.

This very despair, however, turned to account by a man
like Bridaine, might yet become a means of rescue. A remedy
applied with energy has often the greater effect, just as the
disease is more serious, the more completely rooted.

B BBFOKfl THE SEVOLtWIOM.

chapel, the word of Ood never
more or less monotonoua — more
lis conscieDce. Besides, there,
nore hononred than God HimEelf,
only a matter of etiquette ; whether
or powerfiil, it was all one to his
in a spacioos church, mingled with

149

At Versailles, in h
reached him but like
suited to lull than to
surrounded by homaf
to listen to a sermon ■
the discourso was we
kingly ears. At Pari
the crowd, reminded by the general nature both of inatmc-
tions and threatfijiings, of the feeling of equality before God,
lie might still be touched ; he might return to his palace with
a little more energy of mind, a little more life at lieart.

His evil angel, under the form of his confessor, awaited him.
on the threshold of the ehurch.

Richelieu had considered it impossible to bring the kin^
there incognito, without the priest of the church being in the
secret. The priest had offered a retired seat in the chapel,
where we have just seen Helvetius and his party. It had
been agreed that a priest siiould be stationed as sentinel at
the little enter door, by which tliey were to come in. In fact,
they did find a priest there ; but that priest whs DesmarSts.

" Ton here !" said the king.

" Sire, as well I as another. The priest commissioned me.''

"Commissioned — commissioned!" muttered the Marshal;
'■ did he know whether it wonld suit the king that you should
see him at Paris ?"

" At all events, Sire, I am ready to go awny."

The king went in, without replying. A small staircase led
up to the private seat. There was room for three ; but
Richelieu so managed that there was none left for the cou-
fessor, Oesmar^ts remained standing. What signified an
afifront to him ? He had his own plan.

Concealed by a grating, the king examined the crowd with
curiosity, &rst from a distance, then nearer, and his eyes rested

I

I

PBIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 149

gradually on the people who were talking below him. He at
last distinguished Helvetius, who had, as we may remember,
belonged to the Court, in the capacity of mattre d^hdtel to the
queen.

" I think we are at a fall meeting of the Encyclopaedia !"
said he to the Duke.

The Duke smiled. " Ah I ha I your Majesty has guessed it.
I saw it as we came in."

** And you said nothing to me ?"

" I was afraid that the neighbourhood might displease" —

" And also a little afraid that you might appear too well
acquainted with these gentlemen ; is not that the truth?"

" I do not know them all."

"No; only the leading men, and half of the subalterns.
Gome, point out some of them to me."

"Willingly, Sire. Beside Helvetius" —

" There, he has just let in another. Who is it? — What !
Our Protestant of the petition I Do they know each other ?"

" Infidelity is the sister of heresy," said Desmar^ts solemnly.
"To tolerate one"—

" Beside M. Helvetius," interrupted Richelieu, " there is
the Baron d'Holbach, then, on the right, the old Baroness du
Defiant, fianked by her Pont-de-Veyle, whom your Majesty
has heard something of. There is M. d'Alembert of the
Academy of Sciences."

" I know him," said the king, with an absent look.

Richelieu went on, but the king no longer listened to him.
Like a general who contemplates in alarm the enemy's army,
what did he care for the names of the soldiers ? Ejiown or
unknown, weak or strong, they were soldiers, it was an army ;
they were that tide to which God alone has the right and
power to say, " Ye shall go no ftirther ! " That was indeed
a formidable army, of which all the soldiers might have been

150

PRANCE BEFORD THE HEVOLUTION.

fettered, ore by one, without its 'beiog' prevented from ,
vancing, increasiag, and invading, Tiie king might hnVe '
shut up for life eatih oiie of the men tliat he had hetbro hia
eyes, between four walls. But he had no longer faith in i
walla. Tiie new ideas were in the very air.

Thus he grew more and more gloomy as he contemplated
in ailence these dealroyere of hie throne, till at laet a great
stir roused him from his reverie. The hour had juat struck;
the ranks opened before the staff of a leadle who led the way j
to the pulpit, followed by a priest with while hair.

It fl

B he.

He ascended it, and with that look which carries with it
silence to the very extremities of the crowd, he cast his eyes
twice over the whole extent of the church. Then slowly and
solemnly, but with a voice which made itself heard even td
the furthest comers of the edjiice, he said : —

" At the Bight of an audience so new to me, it would Seem,
my brethren, that I ought only to open my lips to ask youf
indulgence on behalf of a poor missionary, devoid of all those
talents that you require in those who come to epeak to yon of
your eternal salvation.

" To-day, however, I experience a different feeling ; and if
I am humbled, beware of thinking that I descend to the
miserable ansietios of vanity. God forbid that a mmister of
heaven ehoald ever think he needs an apology in yonr pre*
sence, for, whoever you may be, you are but sinners like my-
self. It is before your God and mine that I feel at this
moment how much I need to strike upon my breast.

" I have published the jud gments of the Highest in templeB
covered with thatch. I have preached the rigours of penano*
to the destitute who wanted bread ; I have mnde sorrowful
the heart of the poor, the best friends of my God ; I have
carried fear and distress to those hearts whom I seemed called

I

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 151

upon to console. It was my duty, and I fulfilled it. Wo
unto me if I had believed, or allowed to be believed, that sin
under a roof of thatch is sheltered from condemnation I

" But it is here, — where my eyes rest only on the great, the
rich, on hardened and confident sinners, — ah I it is here that
the sacred word must sound forth in all the power of its
thunders ; it is here that I must place beside me in this pul-
pit, on the one hand, the death which threatens you, and on
the other, the Almighty God who is coming to judge you.

"I hold your sentence in my hand this day. Tremble,
then, before me, ye proud and disdainful ! The necessity of
deliverance, the certainty of death, the uncertainty of that
awfiil hour, final impenitence, the last judgment, the small
number of the elect, hell " —

^'Helll'' whispered Desmar^ts, almost in the ear of the
king.

" — and above all, a whole eternity" —

" Eternity I " repeated the Jesuit.

" — these are the subjects on which I am going to address
you ; and which, thanks be to God, I feel less than ever dis-
posed to soften.

" And what need have I of your applause, which would be
my destruction perhaps, and would not save your souls ? God
Himself must touch your hearts, whilst His unworthy minister
speaks to you ; for I know His mercies by experience. Then,
penetrated with horror for your past iniquities, you will come
jUdd throw yourselves at my feet, whilst you shed tears of re-
pentance and contrition, and the strength of your own remorse
will make me appear to you sufficiently eloquent."

A murmur ran through the crowd. Did the orator think
he had struck home ? He would have been mistaken. That
murmur signified, " Well I — very well I " It was the intellect
that admired ; it was not the heart that acknowledged itself

tS2 FHAMCB rmnmK the bbtolution,

vanquished. Back to your tasic, poor missionary, back to youi
task 1 You have effected nothing ae yet, nothing but a fini
burst of eloquence, which yonder youth, the orator of yester-
day, will arrange to-morrow in his own way, in order to
produce it ridiculously phUosopIiized, to the bravos of an
infidel age.*

There was one man there, however, on whose heart thew.
words had left an impression. That man wae the king. Ths
words eternity, hell, sj>ecia!lj the latter, were the only ones
that had retained power to act on his imagination. He could
divert his mind and not listen to them ; but he could not
listen to them without shuddering, or seeming to see the
refleotion of the eternal flames cast over all around him.
was from the senses that he sought liis happiness in this
world ; it was from the senses that he expected hifl punish-
ment in the next. His confessors had done nothing to inspire
him with fears of a higher character. They were glad to have
at least one spring left that would act, and had taken little
pains to raise him above tho weak terrors of the senses,
little mattered to them whetlicr ho loved Giod or not, provided
he continued to fear the devil.

Bach, then, was the feeling of which Desmarfits had watched

. the progress on bis coiintenajice during the exordium of the

sermon ; such was the feeling that he bad done his best to

excite by his awful and sinister interruptions, and his fe&r-

ful tenacity in repeating the words of the orator.

Hence the king's mind took a false direction. AH that
Bridaine was about to say that was grand or terrible, he was
about to bring down Ui the standard of his terriiied and child-
ish imagination. Yet a little more agitation, and Desmarfita
would attempt a great stroke. The king would not bo i

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 153>

verted, but he would submit. God would not be satisfied, but
the Jesuits would.

The object, as we have related, was to manage that the
king should openly declare himself for them. But it was
necessary first to bring him to bind his own cause to theirs j
it was necessary, above all, to mould him thoroughly to the
obedience that they wanted from him. With minds destitute
of energy, to have once yielded is a reason for yielding
again.

This was why Desmar^ts was so anxious to annihilate the
project of an edict favourable to the Huguenots. His hatred
against them was not, then, at this moment, his only or even
his principal motive. He wished that the giving up this in-
tention should be connected in the king's mind with scruples
and fears that might subsequently be turned to account for
another purpose.

Had Bridaine acted in concert with him, he could not have
served his purpose better, for he followed up, with fearful ex-
actness, the plan traced out in his exordium. His first part
treated of death.

** We must die ! " he said ; and he communicated to these
words an expression which of itself gave to an assertion so
common and familiar something new and striking. It was no
longer a mortal announcing to others that £a,te which is his
own likewise ; it was a messenger from on high pronouncing
a sentence.

** We must die I How hard does that word sound to the
ear of man ; hard to those who have enjoyed much ; hard,
above all, to him who has sinned without enjoyment, to him
who has lost his time for this world and the next.

" We must die I When ? We are happy, we are told, in
being ignorant of it. Happy to be ignorant of it I Happy,
yes indeed, happy ! but only if you think of death, if you think

154 nrimOB BWORB THB KEVOLUnOM.

of it con tiny ally, If you can defy it to eurprise or alarm yr
at whatever hour it may come. Bnt if you never tbink of
if yon never approach the idea, but when it is put before your
eyes, when we, fls it were, lay hold of you with both band*^''
t« prevent your tnming' away from it ; if, in short, even then,
you only gain iiy Ihia contemplation a vague and vain feeling
of terror — oh ! then, to be ignorant of the moment of deatli,
is tlie first punishment of your crimes, is the first link of the
inexorable chnin which a God of veng'cance will bind for evaft
around you. To be ignorant of the moment of death I Yes,
for the righteous it is a bl-eBsing, because he prepares for it
every hour ; and the emotions of a deathbed, which are abt<(
to accomplish so many marvels in a moment, last with bi^
twenty, forty yeare, a whole lil'etime. But for the wicked, fo?
the Ungodly, for wbosoever forgets or defies God, this very
ignorance is but the beginning of that ilarkness which is to
fipread for ever over his eyes, that are unworthy of the light.
Once, only once, the lightning will break through the cloud.
When the moment arrives that the soul ehall be separated
from the boily, that has debased and ruined it, then, for an
instant, there will be a great light. Time which has ended,
and eternity which begins, will at once be lighted up. Ob
the one hand, the past without God ; on the other, tlie futurO'
without God, Here, remorse ; there, torments. And whw
the giiilty soul has seen clearly, has measured tie paat
thoroughly, and understood fully that the future ifi hence-
fbrth not to be measured, then all will return into eternal
obscurily. Go on, guilty soul — go on for ever. Go on as if
thou wert seeking, but thou knowest that thou shalt find
nothing. Go on as if thou didst hope, but thou kcowest that
there is hope no longer. The only posseHBion that might have
renderud thy misery endurable, lias been taken from thee at
the threshold. Where eternity begins, ho^w ends I"

I

PBIE8TS, mFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 155

Thus spoke Bridaine. Was be quite right? Ought the
hell of Dante to be that of the Christian theologian ? At all
events, he is but & poor Christian who requires to be stimu-
lated by the dread of eternal punishment, to think a little of
hid soul, and to avoid going too far in sin I

But such dmstians are necessarily numerous at a period
of sensuality and emotion, when people pass easily from im-
piety to bigotry, from indifference to macerations.

The impression, consequently, was deep and universal. It
made its way even into the chapel of Helvetius. More than
0iie of the leaders of the infidelity of the day, surprised himself
shuddering, and saying, " What if it were true I "

But the king did not say if. His terrified gaze plunged, as
it were, with a feverish eagerness into all the depths that the
missionary opened out. He felt his forehead burning with the
heat of the flames that Bridaine had called up in imagina*^
tion. His head became confused ; his faculties, worn out
by debauchery and dissipation, swam in an ocean of horrors.
And Desmar^ts leaned over him and held him spell-bound
by his fixed gaze. And he seemed to see, on that unchanging
face, the laugh of a demon who contemplates the torments of
the damned.

All at once, he threw himself back ; he seized DesmarSts'
arm with his clenched hand.

" Save me I" he murmuj'ed. " Save tne I"

But Desmar^ts appeared not to listen.

" Sire," said Richelieu, " compose yourself. You will be
heard.''

" Save me I *' he said a second time.

*' What can I do ?" said Desmar^ts, coldly.

" Much I— much r'

" Nothing.''

" Nothing I— Gfod I— Nothing I"

156

rHAKCE BEFORE THE

" Nothing, SO long as" —

He bent down to the king's ear.

" What have yoa done with that edict?"

"The edict?"

" Yes. Do not hope fo appease God while you league with 1
His enemies. That edict is already inscribed in letters of fire, j
on die book of your sins. It is there, for eternity !"

And while he ap ike, the fearfol voice of the missionary wwi I
heard sounding through the increasing darkness.

"Eternity!" said he, "etemityl — Know you what is eter- 1
nity? A shoreless sea ; a boundiesB desert ; a bottomless gnlfi f
It is still time, but time becomes stationary as before the 1
creation. It lasts, and yet it has no duration ; it passes on^ 1
and yet it never passes away. And there are the dauined J
obliged to measure it. And, from time to time, a lamentable \
voice is heard, crying, 'What time is it?' and the voice of J
another wretched being answers — ' Eternity 1'"

" Take it," said the king hastily, " take it — take it. Teai I
it up. Eternity ! Good God ! — Eternity 1 Tear it np — tear J

And the project of the edict fell, torn in pieces, at the feet 1
of the Jesuit.

The charm was broken. The king had just paid hie i
ransom. Does not the blood of heretics open the way to 1
heaven ? 1

He was already calmer. All his terrors had melted away I
beneath the magic influence of an expiation at the expense c4 g
others.

The next day, he himself related to his mistress, in the I
enchanting shmbberies of Bellevae, the story of the gloomy I

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 157

CHAPTEE VIII.

Sixteen months had elapsed since the last events we have
related.

Persecution had resumed its course. At Toulouse, five
Protestants were about to suffer death. Several had been
sent to the galleys at Marseilles and Toulon.

The number of women torn from their famiHes and shut up in
convents, was so considerable, as not to be accurately known ;
and at the Tower of Constance, at Aigues-Mortes, where the
number of female prisoners had been reduced to nineteen,
there were at this time five-and-twenty — as many as it coul4
hold.

It is to this prison we must conduct our readers.

Two large circular chambers, situated one above the other,
occupied the whole tower. The lower one admitted no other
light but that which reached it from the upper, through a
round hole of about six feet in diameter ; the upper one was
lighted by a similar hole, in the centre of the ceiling, opening
out upon the terrace at the top of the tower. It was by these
apertures alone that the smoke escaped and the air came in ;
and with the air, the cold, the wind, and rain.

There, in the middle of the eighteenth century, imprisoned
by royal authority, enforced by that of the Church, lived and
died some poor women, whose only crime it was, to have gone
to offer their prayers to Qod in the Desert, or to have sent

158 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

their children thither. Several, as we have seen, had been
at Aigues-Mortes for fifteen, twenty, five-and-twenty years ;
Marie Durand for nearly thirty ; Anne Gaussaint for almost
thirty-eight.

Solicitations had perseveringly been made on their behalf
but in vain. Protestants, Komanists, their own countrymen and
foreigners — ^all who dared speak, had exhausted their influence
in these efforts. The more innocent they were, as we have
already observed, the more it would have been dreaded, that
to grant their liberation, might appear an acknowledgment
of that innocence.

Great alleviations, however, had been gradually introduced
into the internal regulations of their prison. The inhabitants
of Aigues-Mortes manifested the warmest interest in the
prisoners ; and as there was no instance — we have not, at least,
met with the slightest indication of it— of any one of them
abjuring, even the clergy let them at last alone. The Cor-
deliers, whose office it was to convert them, now only brought
them news from without, alms, clothmg. Christian consolation,
which they had learned, in intercourse with them, to separate
from any of the alloy of the Church of Eome. At last, a
Bible had been admitted I Their friends and relations could
sometimes visit them. They received and wrote letters ; we
have seen Marie Durand corresponding with Eabaut. Other
pastors also wrote to them. These precious messages were
always read in common. Tears then fell involuntarily from
their eyes, but they were not bitter like those they had so
often shed in time past ; they seemed for a moment to breathe,
within those massive walls, the vivifying air of the Desert.

One day, or rather evening, at the hour when these poor
prisoners were usually on their pallets — ^for no other light but
that of the sun was in general allowed them — a great and joy-
ful stir prevailed in the Tower of Constance.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AMD HUGUENOTS. 159

All the captives were assembled in the lower chamber,
which was lighted by a lamp. The beds were untouched ;
one only, that of the aged Anne Gaussaint, who had been
long infirm, was occupied ; but the invalid, in a sitting pos-
ture, followed with her eyes all the movements of her com-
panions. Her features, withered by age and suffering, were
lighted up by the reflection of their happiness.

They had just drawn all the beds to one side of the room.
In the vacant i^ace, an old arm-chair was placed with its
back to the wall. Before the arm-chair was a table, upon it
an old table-cover, on which lay a large Bible, the comers of
which were well worn. Finally, before this table, some chairs
and stools — ^all the worn furniture of the prison. All was
ready. The prisoners were moving restlessly to and fro. They
seemed to regret having nothing more to do.

" Marie, what o'clock is it?"

" Six o'clock has just struck at the Cordeliers' church. We
have still time before us."

" Unfortunately."

" The later he comes, the later he will stay."

"Do you think so?"

" I hope so. It does not appear, at least, that the Major*
has fixed an hour for his going out."

" That good Major I what should we do without him ?"

" If his conduct towards us was known, he would soou lose
his place."

" It is indeed going far. A pastor admitted into the tower !
and the king's lieutenant letting him come in and go out !"

" Come in, yes. Gro out" —

" Gracious God I that idea never occurred to me. Do you
fear a snare ? M. d'Ambly is honour itself."

" He seems so.".

* The GoTentor of tbt tower.

160 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

" Have you any suspicions?"

"Nothing, absolutely nothing; and yet, it would not be
the first time."

Marie forgot that she was speaking to Bruyn's mother,
Judas Bruyn — ^for by that name he was still called. She saw
her eyes fill with tears.

" Forgive me," said she, " forgive me I what was I think-
ing of ? — ^let us say no more about it."

" No ; let us speak of it. Unhappy child I Since we have
been expecting the one he purposed to betray, I can think of
nothing but him. Where is he ? What is he doing?"

" M. Babaut knows, perhaps."

" Perhaps. But who will venture to ask him ? — not I. '

" Are you responsible for the — the" —

" The crime, you would say."

" for your son's fault ?"

" No ; and yet I tremble at the thought of seeing M. Babaut
come in ; to think that he might have died — died by thejiand
of the executioner — ^he — our father — our chief consolation
next to God — and that my son might have been the cause of
his death I Ah I Marie, you see it is like a weight, a dreadful
weight, that nothing can take off my heart. K he was there,
speaking kindly to me, even forgiving my son, I should stiU
look for traces of the horror that our name must excite in him.
The door is opening. Gracious God I is it he?"

It was the Major, making his rounds. He was supposed
not to be aware of the serious infringement on the rules of
the prison that he was about to permit. He therefore only
appeared for an instant, otherwise he could not have helped
seeing that the beds had been displaced.

" Decidedly he favours us," said one of the prisoners.

" He looked very gloomy," said another.

" Very thoughtful," said a thiid*

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AMD HUGUENOTS. 161

** Any one might be so, even with less cause. He risks
the loss of his place to-night."

" And on our account. Well, what is the matter, Marie ?"

" Nothing — ^nothing."

"But what then?"

" Nothing — I wish it was to-morrow."

The door opened again. It was Babaut.

Need we say what an event this visit was to the prisoners ?

Some of them had known him. To those, it was almost
as though an angel had appeared in the prison. Many of
them, and Marie was of the number, had never seen him;
but for twenty years past they had heard him spoken of. To
the desire of receiving the consolations of the pastor, was
therefore united the wish of seeing a remarkable man, the
hero of so many tales, the centre of those astonishing chroni-
cles, where their unknown names figured beside his.

But if for twenty years past they had known and repeated
his name, he had known that of their prison much longer,
and his imagination had traced its dark history. Although
the female prisoners of Aigues-Mortes were not worse off, on
the whole, than many others, they had the privilege of ex-
citing a more especial interest. A tower famous throughout
the country, an old castle, a memorial of the times of the
Crusades,* all concurred to give something dramatic, at a
distance, to the humble existence of these captives. In ima-
gination, Babaut had a thousand times passed through those
gates ; he knew the lives and histories of all these women
whom he was about to see. He felt by his own emotion, that
he should recognise those whom he had never seen.

They had at first rushed towards the door, but a feeling of

* The fortifications of Aigoes-MorteR, commenced under St. Louis, were finished under
his son, Philip the Bold A letter from Pope Clement IV. to that prince, in which he
praised his constancy in building them, was the reason for giving the name of Constance
(0 the principal tower, wfaidi it has retained.

VOL. n. L

162 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

respect held them back. They had formed, mechanically,
a large semicircle round him. Some had fallen on their
knees — ^not before the man, but before God, for their eyes
were turned upwards, and their lips moved in prayer ; others
saw only him, and could as yet think only of him.

He, too, was silent and motionless. His eyes were now
turned heavenwards, now towards them. His hands were
joined in prayer, and then stretched out to bless them. Only
some stifled sobs were heard, and, at intervals, the voice of
the aged Anne Gaussaint, who murmured her old hymn —

" Lord, let Thy senrant now depart
Into Thy promised rest."

At length the pastor came forward. He had observed the
table, the arm-chair, and the Bible ; he wished, before speak-
ing to them, to address that God for whose sake they had
suflfered so much.

His idea was understood. When he reached the table,
and stood behind it, they knelt in two rows, a few steps
before him.

Then he began to pray, but this time it was aloud. He prayed
— shall we try to repeat his words ? He prayed, as one might
pray in such a place and such an assembly, who hazarded
his life daily to comfort others, and pray with them.

" God I " he said ; "0 our Father I — Our hearts were
united at a distance — our thoughts met when ascending to
Thy throne. Thou hast permitted that our voices, as well as
our hearts, should for once ascend together. what shall we
render unto Thee, Lord I what shall we do for Tliee, who
hast done so much for us ? Alas 1 poor sinners that we are,
our very gratitude is a snare to us. We spend all the love
that we possess in returning Thee thanks for the favour of
to-day ; we forget, that before granting it, Thou wast just as
much our Protector, Father, Saviour, Qod. What is this

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 163

benefit compared with those which thou hast pom*ed out upon
us in the Gospel ? What are these few Teams of joy that
have entered this spot to-day, compared with the Sun of
Eighteousness — always shining, always visible to those who
look heavenwards ? Thus, God, at the very moment that
we feel ourselves wholly Thine, we yet need that Thou
shouldest direct and raise our thoughts; even in ascending
towards Thee, our spirits may go astray. Come, Lord, teach
us Thyself the way that leads to Thee. May flesh and blood
have no part in the worship that Thou permittest us to offer
Thee to-day. It is the first — it is, according to all human
appearances, perhaps the last time that we shall pray to Thee
together ; grant that we may be here such as we shall be in
heaven.'*

He sat down. The women, who had been kneeling till
then, rose, and he signed to them to be seated. But they
did not sit down ; and when he took the book, they again
knelt.

Scarcely had he touched that Bible, when a new feeling of
emotion was visible in his countenance. He had recognised
it. It was the old Bible of the Bruyns. On opening it, he
had lighted upon the famous mark dyed with blood ; and a
woman, hid behind the others, had burst into sobs.

" This treasure here I " said he. " To expose such an in-
heritance I"

"Who would have received it?" murmured the woman.
" I have no longer a son."

Eabaut turned almost a smUing look upon her. " It is
written," said he, " that even of stones God can raise up
children to those who serve Him."

" Great God I " exclaimed she ; " shall I see my son again?"

" I do not know if you may see him again ; you may love
him."

164 FRANCE BEFOBE THE REVOLUTION.

"Is he alive?"

" Yes."

" Has he repented ?"

" Yes."

" Have you forgiven him ?"

"I have; and God before me. Be calm. This Bible,
when it goes out from hence, will return into pure hands.
Let us read, sisters ; let us read together."

He then read to them, in St. John, the Saviour's farewell
to His apostles. It was, of the whole Bible, the part which
they had read the most frequently over and over again.
There were so many things in those admirable chapters
which seemed written for them. They knew them by heart ;
and yet, in his mouth, they seemed new. They almost asked
themselves whether he was adding nothing to them. What
could he have added? Was not everything there — hope,
consolation, all?

" Let not your heart be troubled : ye believe in God, be-
lieve also in me. And I will pray the Father, and he shall
give you another Comforter, that he may abide with you for
ever, even the Spirit of truth ; whom the world cannot re-
ceive, because it seeth him not, neither knoweth him ; but ye
know him, for he dwelleth with you, and shall be in you.
Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you : not as
the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be
troubled, neither let it be afraid.

" As the Father hath loved me, so have I loved you ; con-
tinue ye in my love. K the world hate you, ye know that it
hated me before it hated you. Kemember the word that I
said unto you. The servant is not greater than his lord. K
they have persecuted me, they will also persecute you; if
they have kept my saying, they will keep yours also.

" And ye now therefore have sorrow ; but I will see you

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 165

again, and your heart shall rejoice, and your joy no man
taketh from you.

" Holy Father, I pray not that thou shouldest take them
out of the world ; but that thou shouldest keep them from the
evil. Sanctify them through thy truth : thy word is truth.
That they all may be one ; as thou. Father, art in me, and I
in thee, that they may be one, even as we are one."*

At the latter words he paused.

"Do you hear, my sisters?" said he — " * One with Ood!^
That is the great privilege — that is the great mystery. * One
with Godr — What, then, does the hatred or the violence of
man signify to us? Like Him, we are above them. What
does the misery of time signify to us ? In tearing from us
our temporal possessions, the wicked will only have succeeded
in opening to us a little sooner the gates of eternity."

He liked this grand idea ; he enlarged upon it for a long
time. At last, " Sisters," pursued he, " this is union with God ;
if you wish it, let us realize it. Let this table become the
Lord's table. Where is the bread? where is the wine ?"

They had thought of it. To communicate was their most
eager desire. The sacred elements were brought forward.
The bread was in an earthenware dish ; the wine in a pewter
goblet.

" We have nothing more costly," said Marie.

" So much the better. Had Jesus more ?"

They wished to kneel.

" No," said Rabaut ; " let us do as in the Desert. Rise ;
and when I call you, draw near."

After a few moments' silent prayer, he began.

A Protestant in our day was asked how the Lord's
Supper was celebrated in his church ; " Ask St. Paul," said
he. And we, too, should any one ask us how they received

• John xiv. 1, 16, 17, 27; xr. », 18, 20 ; xri 22 : xviL 15, 17, 21.

166 . FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

the comnmnion that day, in the Tower of Constance, would
reply, " Ask St. Paul."

" For I have received of the Lord that which also I de-
livered unto you, that the Lord Jesus, the same night in
which he was betrayed, took bread : and when he had given
thanks, he brake it, and said. Take, eat ; this is my body,
which is broken for you : this do in remembrance of me.

" After the same manner also he took the cup, when he
had supped, saying. This cup is the new testament in my
blood : this do ye, as oft as ye drink it, in remembrance of
me. For as often as ye eat this bread, and drink this cup,
ye do shew the Lord's death till he come." *

Have you read it ? have you recognised the mass there ?
And if you were really seeking not the mass, but the Lord's
Supper in reality, where would you find it — on your gilded
altars, or on those tables which you are taught to turn into
ridicule ? Where would St. Paul have been most at home,
under the ceiled roof of St. Peter's at Kome, or in the smoky
chamber of the Tower of Aigues-Mortes ?

The Protestant liturgy is drawn up, as we know, from St.
Paul's narrative, and the exhortations he has added to it.
When the minister had pronounced the words of consecration,
the prisoners defiled in order before him. To each one, as
he presented the bread and wine, he addressed, according to
custom, one or two verses of Scripture, by way of exhorta-
tion. Then, he went to Anne Gaussaint's bed; she was
eagerly waiting for her turn — her eyes, her soul, her whole
being, seemed to have gone forth to welcome the heavenly
bread. She had already received it, when she fell back on
her pOlow, exhausted and breathless — and repeating, in still
lower accents : —

" Lord, let Thy servant now depart
Lite Thy promised rest."

♦ 1 Cor. xi 23-26.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 167

Then at last, when they had prayed together once more,
Rabaut drew near to the prisoners. He related to Bruyn's
mother, where and how he had found her son ; he added that
which we have not yet had an opportunity of mentioning,
how Bruyn had been brought out of prison.

He owed it to Bridaine. Convinced of his innocence in
the unpleasant affair with the Marquis de Namiers, the mis-
sionary had set to work courageously. Joly de Fleury, the
attorney-general, Voltaire's aversion, detested the reformed
religion at least as much as he did impiety ; but after all he
was a just man. He listened to Bridaine ; he questioned the
Marquis, and the latter, who already purposed saving Bruyn,
completely cleared up the business. But as he could not have
been set at liberty without very complicated negotiations
taking place between the Parliaments of Paris and Toulouse,
it had been agreed that Bniyn should be removed from his
prison, as if to be taken back to his former judges, and that
he should escape on the road. This took place ; he returned
to Paris, and under a false name, Gebelin had placed him with
his bookseller, instead of the clerk who had informed on the
subject of the books. There, under Gebelin's direction, he
had made rapid progress in the good path that God had opened
out for him once more ; but with his former faith, his former
zeal had returned. He could not long con tine in the obscure
occupations of a shop ; he had requested to be employed as
helper to the pastors, in the extensive circuits that were made
from time to time amongst the scattered Protestants of the
north and west.

For several months past, he had been at work, and had
already reorganized more than one little flock which had long
been lost sight of. To the happiness of labouring for the
cause of the Church was added that of endeavouring to re-
establish his own character ; for he did not as yet consider

168 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

him83lf absolved. That could only be, be said, when be felt
worthy to see bis birthplace once more ; and he would not
return thither, till his labours should have abundantly covered
his fault.

There were few of the prisoners to whom Eabaut had not
some details to give of their family or friends. They over-
powered him with questions ; their eagerness seemed to in-
crease with the very tears that his answers made them shed.
To which of them had he not one or more deaths to com-
municate? But the most sorrowful conversations are the
most difficult to bring to an end.

The night drew on, however. Many hours had struck on
the clock of the Cordeliers since the minister had entered the
Tower ; there had even been heard, outside the door, some-
thing like the whispering of people growing impatient. Those
within had imagined it was the jailers, tired of watching, for
the Major had forbidden them to go in, and they were only to
open the door when Rabaut should knock.

Marie Durand, alone, had felt her fears revived. This
noise had appeared to her ominous ; her countenance ex-
pressed such anguish, that at last the minister had perceived
it. But he was engaged at that moment in such sorrowful
recitals, to which we shall have to return presently, that this
terror seemed explained ; at the utmost, he thought that she
trembled when hearing him speak of a pastor about to
perish,* at the thought of the dangers that he himself was
continually exposed to. But suddenly he became silent ; they
had just heard without, something like the heavy fall of the butt
end of a musket on the stairs. He turned pale — the women
remained motionless and terror-struck. There could be no
doubt — ^treachery was watching at that door. To flee, was
out of the question — ^to wait, would have been to wear out in

* Bochette, at Toulouse.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 169

apprehensions, the courage that was left him. He went
straight to the door and knocked ; it was opened. The stair-
case was covered with soldiers.

The women gave a piercing shriek ; but in the face of dan-
ger he had abeady recovered his self-possession.

** Whom do you want ?" said he.

There was no answer. The soldiers did not move ; they
seemed to avoid his glance.

" Whom do you want ?" he repeated.

There was still no answer, but a harsh impatient voice was
heard behind the soldiers, murmuring, "Go on I go on,
then." They recognised it to be that of the Major.

" Sir," said the minister — and his eye sought him in the
darkness — " I need not tell you that this is infamous. You
know it ; for you are hiding yourself."

And with that imposing gesture which gave so much
authority to his words, he added : — " Wait for me I "

He then turned to the prisoners.

" Farewell — farewell, my poor sisters " —

But he could say no more. The noise of fheir sobs stifled
his voice. They had thrown themselves at his feet ; they
clung to his dress ; they bathed his hands with their tears.

One of them — her face hid in her hands, had rushed towards
Anne Gaussaint's bed. Suddenly she was seen to rise up,
give a scream, and fall back in a fainting fit. She had
by chance touched one of the hands of the aged prisoner.
The hand was cold and stiflF. Anne Gaussaint's prayer had
been heard ; she had departed in peace. Her body was
abeady cold, and proved that she had expired some time
before, perhaps at the very moment that the minister left the
side of her bed.

" Well," said he, " God be praised I I have opened her
prison-doors for her."

170 FKANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

Then, returning immediately to the door — *' Major d'Am-
bly," said he, " one of your prisoners is wanting. Here is
the other. Let us go I"

The soldiers took their places mechanically around him.
It would have been difficult, from their attitude, to say
whether he was their prisoner or their leader.

"Let us go I "he repeated — and the door, closing upon
him, concealed him from the sight of the prisoners.

A week had passed away. His friends, the convicts at
Toulon, were also expecting a visit from him. They knew
not to what to attribute the delay.

Like the captives at Aigues-Mortes, they were beginning to
feel the effects of that toleration which, in spite of the laws,
was making its way in the manners of the country generally ;
amongst subordinates in spite of their superiors, amongst the
superiors in spite of themselves.

But till lately, they had still had to bear the same priva-
tions and sufferings as the criminals on a footing with whom
they were placetl. A letter written to the pastor Lafond, in
1753, by the convict Isaac Grenier, gives us the most pain-
ful details on this subject : — " Our circumstances," says he,
" always depend upon those who rule over us. They ysltx
according to the caprices of minds often eccentric, and always
more or less brutal. You have heard what clothes are given
us, with which we must bear the cold of winter and the heat
of summer. Eeceiving no other food than bread and water,
employed in the work allotted to us, we can only be exempted
from it by paying a sol every morning to the sergeants ; other-
wise we are liable to punishment — such as being fastened to
a beam of wood by a heavy chain, day and night." Let us
not forget to say that the writer of this letter was eighty-three
years of age ; besides, he was a man of good family. Equality,

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 171

which was still banished from the social system, existed, as
we see, at the bagnio, even in the case of those who had the
greatest right to respect. Isaac Grenier had just lost his
son, a convict like himself ; his fortune had been confiscated,
and he had to depend upon the charity of his brethren for
the miserable sol that he had to give to the sergeants.

Even this equality between the Protestant galley-slave and
ordinary criminals, was already a great improvement ; for at
first they had been exposed to the most dreadful treatment.
Under Louis XIV., there was no torture, either physical or
moral, that was not invented to inflict upon them. The
Romanist convicts were comparatively well oif.

All this was at an end. It was in vain that some Parlia-
ments — surged on by the clergy, spurred by the perpetual
necessity of expiating, at the expense of others, their own
Galilean boldness — had been seized with a terrible spirit of
emulation to continue the work of the great king. Those
whom they sent to the galleys, generally found protectors there
— ^friends, assistance, every alleviation, in short, of which a
residence at the bagnio admitted. The severity of their guards
softened down before their patience and courage. It became
impossible not to make an immense distinction between them
and the criminals whose lot they shared ; and there was not
one of their guards who did not at heart break through the
monstrous rules which the magistrates had introduced.

Finally, as at Aigues-Mortes, the well-known impossibility
of obtaining conversions, had disgusted the priests ; they
kept aloof. Gentle measures led to nothing, and violence
was forbidden. There, also, the system was faithfully main-
tained, by which the Protestants were supposed to be con-
demned, not as Protestants, but for having violated the sta-
tutes which forbade them to assemble together — a miserable
fiction, which spared the persecutors some acts of cruelty.

172 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

but, on the other hand, only served to render the persecution
as absurd as it was abeady odious.

Some days, therefore, after the adventure at Aigues-Mortes,
two of our convicts, chained together, were seated in the
arsenal. One of them, young and strong, was reading ; the
other, old and broken down, half lying on a plank, exhibited
the exhaustion of fatigue in his whole person, and that of the
deepest depression in his countenance.

" How much longer do we rest?" inquired he.

" Half-an-hour, I think."

" I need it. How shall I begin again ?"

"Let me work alone. They will take no notice."

" Yes ; but I must remain standing just the same, — go,
come, and follow all your movements. And in vain you try
to make them as gentle as you can, my poor Fabre ; you hurt
me terribly."

" You never told me so."

" Ought I to have added another care to all you already
bear for my sake?"

" You were my father's firiend, and I am almost your son."

" Almost f You are indeed altogether I What is sure —
but too sure" — and he sighed deeply — " is, that I have now
no other."

We have recognised old Bruyn in this speaker.

" Say what you will I " resumed he. " Thus to chain life
to death — is dreadful " — and he shook with his trembling
hand the heavy chain that connected him with his com-
panion.

" Be calm," said Fabre. " Am I not very happy, after all,
to be with a friend ? What if I were chained to one of those
vile scoundrels ? Be calm."

He relapsed into his depression. His companion began to
read again.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 173

" Tou would like better to walk about, I am sure," re-
somed the old man, after a moment's pause.

" No, indeed. Besides, do you not see I am reading ? "

" What are you reading ?"

" You know, my old friend. My library has but one
volume."

" Oh I that comedy that M. Court sent you ; your own
story, I believe."

" Yes. The Honnete Criminely in five acts, by a certain
Fenouillet de Falbaire."

" And it — ^pleases you ?"

" Alas I never was convict's jacket so coarse, but that
pride could lodge beneath it. Yes ; they have given me a
fine character there — they make me declaim verses — and
verses — and yet" —

" Yet ? "

" I am perhaps ungrateful, but after all, the piece does not
seem to me to be worth much."

"Indeed I"

" Grand words, grand verses, grand sentiments, but little
or no nature — still less religion ; on the other hand, abun-
dance of improbabilities, and, what is most curious, the author
does not appear to suspect that his hero is still alive. He
has heard my adventure related ; he has laid hold of it incor-
rectly, and never thought of inquiring the date. That error
speaks more, indeed, than all his declamations. Evidently,
it has never occurred to him that the fact might be a recent
one. Such laws appeared to him to belong to another century.
I should not be surprised if he were ignorant that there are
still Protestants at the galleys."

" They say that there will soon be more."

" The chain from Toulouse is to arrive one of these days —
perhaps to-day. There will surely be some."

174 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

" As M. Rabaut has put off his visit so long, let him wait
a little longer, and oar poor new-comers will at least benefit
by it."

" Yes ; but this delay begins to make me uneasy. He
wrote to me, as you know, from Aigues-Mortes ; he was to
see our prisoners there that very day" —

" My poor w]£e 1 " murmured Bruyn.

" — and to set off next day for Toulon. He tells me that
he had obtained permission to see us in private, ten at a time.
He will cheer you up."

" Yes ; the soul — and that is the principal object — ^but the
body?"

" Both body and soul — you will see."

" God grant it I But, by the bye, you have not told me if
^ he says anything to you of the solicitations begun in your
favour."

" Some words."

"And these few words?"

" I wished to say nothing about it to you."

" Why ? Oh I I understand you — ^my God I my God I "

" Well, then, he writes me word, that the solicitations pro-
ceed ; that the Duke de Choiseul has taken up the affair, and
means to lay it before the king."

" Before the king 1 "

" He adds, that this piece, however bad it may be, has been
the fashion ; that it is read and acted in private circles ; that
it will perhaps be performed on the stage ; in short, that my
release is certain."

"And you will leave me I" cried out Bruyn. "And I
shall remain behind; and you will — ^but no, go — go; be
happy — ^be free ; what is there in common between you and
me ? You sacrificed yourself for your father, and 1 have been
dishonoured by my son."

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 175

" Still that remembrance I — still 1"

" Go— go ; the name of Bruyn is only worthy to become
extinct at the galleys ; forgive me — forgive me ; you have
done me good, and shall I envy you your happiness ? Yet
what a prospect I — Alone ! — given up to I know not whom —
my God I my God 1'^

The bell rang; in an instant all was in motion in the
arsenal. But hardly had work been resumed, when the cry
of "The chain I the chain I" spread as quick as lightning
from the very entrance to the furthest extremity of the
bagnio. The bell rang again; the convicts, leaving their
work, fell immediately into their ranks; they waited with
noisy exultation to be led to meet their new companions in
misery. The Protestants took no part in this brutal mirth ;
but they were equally impatient to see which of their brethren
were about to share their lot.

The melancholy column had halted at the entrance of the
yard. As soon as all the convicts were drawn up on the two
sides of the avenue, it was put into motion again.

Convicts did not then travel in carriages as now. It was
a wretched sight to see those faces with long beards, those
worn down bodies, those bleeding feet. Some, with all the
audacity of crime, seemed to revive in the air of the bagnio ;
others, with the depression of cowardice or remorse, sought to
avoid observation. Some, finally, neither sought to exhibit
nor to hide themselves ; if they bowed their heads, it was with
the calm of resignation ; if they raised them, it was to seek for
^iendly faces. These were the Protestants.

Out of sixty arrivals, there were ten of the latter ; it was
a considerable proportion, and recalled the good times of
Louis XIV.

" The Desert has sent a supply," said an old guard to Fabre
and Bruyn. " Are there any of your friends there ?"

176 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

" None that I know, as yet. But probably they are not all
passed.''

" No— here are some, I believe."

The column, in fact, terminated by a group of Protestants.
Fabre, thunderstruck, had just perceived his three friends
there — Sabati6, and the two brothers Keboul — Madeleine's two
brothers, those who with him escorted Kabaut on the day of
Bruyn's treachery. They, too, had just recognised him, and
nodded their heads, smiling, as friends do when they meet.

They passed on ; Fabre followed them with his eyes. Old
Bruyn was quite overpowered ; it would have been less pain-
ftil to him to have recognised his own son beneath that odious
costume, than to see all the witnesses of his disgrace arrive.

" To work I " cried the overseer.

Fabre, instead of obeying, turned to follow the column.
He was let alone; the overseers were authorized to have
every indulgence for him which was not absolutely contrary
to the general regulations. But Bruyn could not move
quickly. The new arrivals were already drawn up in a court,
and the superintendent of the bagnio was about to inspect
them. It was necessary to smrey the goods sent in, and give
a receipt to those who brought them.

This superintendent, the Marquis d'Origny, had been the
first firiend of the Protestants at the galleys. It was from him
that Kabaut had received permission to see them. He only
wished, like Major d'Ambly, that the thing should appear to
be done without his knowledge ; therefore, although he fre-
quently spoke to Fabre, and knew that he was informed of
the pastor's visit, he had not mentioned it to him. It was,
therefore, with much surprise that our two convicts saw him
come up to them with a threatening and agitated appearance.
But they soon felt that they were not the objects of his
anger.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 177

" Good day, Fabre," said he. " Good day, Bniyn." Then
in a lower tone, and so as to be heard by them only, " He
will come — ^let him fear nothing." And he left them amazed,
both at his confidential tone, and at the mixture of irritation
and kindness.

The inspection being over, they could go up to their
friends. Fabre threw himself into their arms ; Bruyn, whose
eyes were swollen with the tears that he could not shed,
pressed their hands convulsively.

" You here ! — you here I "

" Why not?" said Sabati6. " You are both here."

" Where did they take you ?"

" Nowhere. They are no longer satisfied with surprising
us at our assemblies, nor even with punishing those whom
they suppose to have attended them. The circle of crime is
extended at the pleasure of our persecutors. We were asked
if it was true that we had sometimes escorted M. Rabaut.
We might have denied it; we would not; and here we
are."

" And does M. Rabaut know of your misfortune ?"

" He must know it."

" How is it that he did not write to me of it ?"

" Write? — has he written to you lately?"

" Yes ; from Aigues-Mortes."

" From Aigues-Mortes I " exclaimed the three friends.

"Yes, from Aigues-Mortes," said Fabre, surprised in his
turn at their astonishment, and at the tone in which they
spoke. " Did you not know that I received letters from him ? "

"Yes; but"—

" He announced to me, in his last, his intention to visit us
here very soon."

" But do you think, then, that they will be satisfied with
sending him to the galleys ?"

VOL. u. M

178 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

" Sending him ? I do not understand you."

But he had scarcely spoken the words, when the terrible
truth flashed upon him. He grew pale ; he trembled to ask
further questions.

" But," he at last resumed, " are you sure of what you say ?
It is but a moment ago that the superintendent — You saw
him speaking to us, did you not? Well, he was precisely
telling us that M. Kabaut was coming, and that he had
nothing to fear."

The friends shrugged their shoulders.

"The superintendent — the superintendent!"

" Yes, the superintendent ; he is our best friend here ; he
is open, kind"—

" Is he, perhaps, better than the Major of the Tower of
Constance?"

" They say that M. d'Ambly is an excellent man."

" Excellent, indeed, for acts of treachery."

"Wasithe?"

" It is he. Trust to your M. d'Origny after that I M.
Rabaut"—

" But if he is already taken," said Bruyn, " there is no
more question about taking him."

" That is true. You may suppose, then, that the super-
intendent has been laughing at you."

" He ?" said Fabre. " It is impossible."

" Think what you please ; but what is sure, only too sure,
is, that our pastor is taken."

"He is lost I"

" Hush I — listen ! " — and Sabatie, coming quite close to
them, hurried them mto a comer of the court.

" Listen to me. We have just passed through the pro-
vince. We have seen some of our friends, here and there.
They were able to say a few words to us, in spite of our

PUIE8TS, INFIDELS, AND UUGUEN0T8. lid

guards. A terrible fermentation prevails in the Cevennes.
In a week, in three or four days perhaps, Languedoc will be
on fire. We shall see."

An overseer came up, anci they were obliged to separate.

Sabatie told the truth. At the news of the pastor's arrest,
the old Camisard blood had kindled once more, with all its
ardour, in those hearts so long oppressed. The courage of
all, and the remembrances of all, had, we have said, fixed as
their rallying-point the day when despotism should lay hold
of him who preached patience to them. That day was come.
The Cevenols were about to raise their heads. Grod Him-
self, they said, by allowing the period they had fixed to
arrive, seemed to order the combat, and assure the victory.

The most moderate, even some pastors, who, like Kabaut,
had not ceased to preach resignation and peace, were begin-
ning to doubt whether rebellion was a crime. They knew
what Grod commands to subjects ; but did not a whole century
of submission absolve them beforehand ? And since that sub-
mission brought no alleviation — since there was no hope left
that tyranny would spare the least vestige of their faith, was
it not time to repeat now, — ^their heads raised, and sword in
hand, " It is better to obey Grod than man" ?

Nevertheless, there was not a province in France where
the old proverbial attachment of the French people to their
sovereigns had been kept up more inviolate. Yes, the Pro-
testants still loved that king who crushed them, or allowed
them to be crushed. He was still to them Grod's anointed,
and the grandson of Henry IV. Nowhere had the news of
his illness at Metz, in 1744, been received with deeper or
more sincere sorrow. A synod,* then assembled, has left us
a record, in its reports, of this singular loyalty. " On the 20th

* It was the first general or nationeU synod since the revocation of the Edict of
Kantes.

180 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

of August, at the close of the sitting, one of the members
having communicated a letter that he had just received,
which contained the sad and afflicting news of the king's
illness, they fell on their knees, to entreat God by fervent
prayer, for his Majesty's restoration to health. Then, the
Synod resolved that, as soon as possible, public prayers should
be offered up in all the churches on the same subject/' Two
days before, at the opening of the Synod, " after having read
the Word of God, and implored the assistance of the Holy
Spirit, all the members of the assembly made the most sin-
cere protestations of their inviolable fidelity to the king."
Resolved, consequently, that each pastor shall preach once a
year on the necessity of submission to the powers that be ;
resolved, still further, that in all the churches, a solemn fast
shall be shortly celebrated, the object of which shall be prin-
cipally "for the preservation of his Majesty's most sacred
person." Never had Christian submission, never had the
monarchical doctrine been more publicly professed.

Indeed, it is not only the worship paid to royalty by them
that we find it difficult to conceive in the present day. Habit
had rendered it almost universally independent of the virtues
or vices, of the benevolence or the severity, of the individual
occupying the throne. Under the royal sword, people cried,
" Long live the king 1 God save the king I " just as, thirty
years later, under the axe of the Kepublic, many cried, " God
save the Kepublic I "

People might, therefore, at that period, rebel against the
royal authority, even fight against the king's soldiers, without,
for all that, rebelling against the king — without having, at
least, the smallest intention of doing so. In our day, it would
be but a play upon words ; we should accuse whoever had
recourse to it, of bad faith ; and we should be right. But
then, the distinction was possible. However little logical we

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 181

may think it, it nevertheless rested on a real and finn feeling.
When the Parliaments resisted the will of the king, they
thought themselves as much royalists as ever ; when the Pro-
testants were on the point of having recourse to arms, in order
to escape from oppression, it was with their whole souls and
consciences that they declared themselves willing to remain
the very humble subjects of the king.

Something analogous to what has always been seen in reli-
gion was then taking place in politics. Few men, while
throwing off the yoke of God's laws, are conscious of rebelling
against God Himself; the greater number, almost all, would
repel the idea of it with horror. It was thus, at that period,
with regard to kings. A king was a species of god. We
say, he was ; he is so no longer. This is the key to all that
appears to us inexplicable in the feelings and conduct of their
subjects in former times.

As to outward circumstances, for a long period they had
not been so favourable as at that moment for the intended
rising.

Financial embarrassments had increased ; miUtary matters
were going on from bad to worse. It was the fifth year of a
war which was to last seven, but of the termination of which
there was as yet no sign, and which only offered the indefinite
prospect of agitation and disasters. Exhausted within, hu-
miliated without, France was less than ever in a condition to
struggle vigorously against a part of herself. The English
had taken Belle-Isle, and threatened from thence all the
Gulf of Gascony. The Marshals de Broglie and Soubise, at
the head of a hundred thousand men, had only obtained in-
significant successes in Germany, soon followed by a defeat.*
The famous Facte de famille, concluded by the Duke de

• At Fininghausen. July 16, 1761.

182 FRANCE BEFORE THE RBVOLUTIO

Choiseul,* between all the reigniiig princeB of tiic hoiiBo o£-
Boiirlion,-]- had till then only hrought about new compKcations.
The navy Jiad ceased to exist ; the colonies were fallings one
by one into the hands of the English. T\vice, in the cMtnrse
of this year, France had humlily offered, not to say asked for,,
peace with England; twice had England rephed hy t
mouth of Pitt, in the language of an enemy s\
who can have peace when he chooscB, and who takes advan- |
tage, meanwhile, of all the chances of war.

With our Gevenols, it was a very Berions question whetheciB
they ought to accept, should the case occur,
that power. The great majority felt repugnant t
After having so often repelled, as an odiona calumny, 1
imputation of being united at heart to the enemies of t
French name, how could they ojien the kingdom to thoB
very soldiers against whom Brittany and Guyenoe so bravely^
kept up their fire ? Ought that alliance against France, withv
wliich the nld Caniisartls had been so reproached, to be r
newed by their children ?

Others, however, were less scnipnlons. According to thent^fl
these were only considerations of human honour, seriouB in
htunan affairs, of small accuunt when the rights of c
and the inleresfa of religion were eonoerned. In the abow
mentioned Synod of 1744, the public fast which had 1
ordered for the preservation of the king's life had also anothi
object — " the success of his arms." Sucjiess had been granted (d
what had they gained hy it ? All the effective soldierB 1^
hy a triumphant peace, hatl lieen turned, by the king's orders,*
upon Languedoc, and jwrsecntion hiifl reci'mmenced
more ardour and obstinacy than had been seen for thirt
years past. To call in the English in onier to give up ti

I The Slmji Df f nose, S[alii. mid NaplH ; I

pnir-;aT9, infidels, and iiutiUKNoTs. 1S;I

tlieni, Bail! tlicse niime I'nrt est ants, would Le a

icL-ept the support wliioh they might give to a

entirely religions ehanictcr, could be only taking

Ivantago of jiasiBtanee offered by God Himself, How could

recogniBe all that country's rights over them which had

lated tliem as pariahB for a himdred years past? Can a

lel stepmother he considered as a mother? Can it he for-

'bidden to seek from strangers some support against her fury ?

Lastly, some who might have heen called Ihe philosophical

party, although, in iJl other respects, little resembling the

innovators of the day — some, we say, either bolder or more

sistenf, asked theiiiselves if they were not ({uite emanci-

ited from all duty towards a country which had determined

their ruin, and towards a sovereign who declared himself

to be decided on treating them as enemies so long as they did

not aliiure ? " Have not all the ties that bound ur to France

been broken?" said they. " Have we contiacted the lasting

obligation to consider our oppresBOTS as fellow-countrymen

and brethren, because we are born under the same sky with

them ? Our hrethren^nr tmc brethren — are those who have

one faith with us, Aa for the rights af the French crown,

which we have hitherto acknowledged, nothing obliges us to

jtcknowledge tiiem indefinitely. Above tlie right of sovereigns,

are the rights of the people. Languedoc was ours before it

ilonged to the king. If we gave it over to the Engliali,

it alone would constitute England its mistress, just as

* But this mode of reasoning, although in conformity to tlie
leas of the day, and more tlian that, io incontestable prin-
^les, was far too much in wlvance of the mass of the Frn-
It could not he effaced from their minds that theri'
res treason in calling into the heart of the kingdom a people
I whom France was at war without. They had long

184 FRAIICE BSroltG '

cfiiiaed to be the brethreu of their fellow-conn trymen ; bnt
tliey could not give up the tope of being such one day.
lieepite of their persecutors, they felt that there was bnt a
fictitious separation between them and the rest of the nation.
They did not wish the wuU, raised up by fftnaticisin, which
iit the first breath of justice and reason might fall,
eschanged for an impiissable gult^

Such was, then — such bad always been, in reality, thrf]
general stala of feeling. These detailB, perhaps somewht
tedions, have appeared necessary to UB, The history of tl
French Protestants in the eigbteentli centuiy is eo little and.
HO imperfectly known, even by their descendants, that vb
ought to neglect no opportunity of pointing out its principal

icb ^m

ndV

They had, however, as yet, neither plan nor leaders. Thej"
had no longer him to consult who, for twenty years, had
the soul and centre of the churches ; they even asked tbenr**
selves, not without some anaiety, whetiier he would ajiprove
of the rwing? Every one felt the necessity of waiting at
least till his trial should have begun. Not knowing where
to begin, they wished that circumstances themselves should.
give the signal and the impulse. They contented themseV
therefore, with collecting every posfiible detail
enterprises, resources, faults, sueuesses, and reverses of th<
Hamiaanls. The History of the Troubles in the Cevennet,
Antoine Court, published the year befiire by his son, was
I'vcry one's hands ; but it was no longer sufficient. The ol(
men were questioned ; they -were made to repeat all that tbey.
knew or had seen of the battles of that period. Whoever hacU
taken a part in them, became once more the hero of the day.

But of all the heroes of the Cevenol drama still living,
bad retaincl more vigour in his narratives, or more freshni
of mind, than the aged Antoine Keboul. From the first niovi

rhej*^
be^^H
bem^^^l

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 185

ments in 1702, down to the last in 1709, he could relate and
describe everything. Court had only had to put together, in
several parts of his work, the documents of which this ever
youthful memory was an inexhaustible storehouse. But that
which the historian could not express, was the originality,
the untutored eloquence, the striking gestures of the aged
Camisard. No one could better transport others with him to
the midst of the agitations of his youth, no one knew better
how to combine military enthusiasm, and the raptures of
ardent faith, with the gravity of age and experience.

Besides, none, not even excepting Rabaut, had given more
constant proofs of courage and devotedness. His life — ^and he
was verging on his eighty-third year — had been one long
struggle. On returning home after the dispersion of the last
troops, he did but exchange weapons. Always first and last
at the assemblies and synods, every danger had found him at
his post ; and yet, like those veterans of whom it might almost
be said that cannon-balls are afraid, he had never been sur-
prised, compromised, nor personally disquieted.

But he had seen those blows which he himself had been
spared, fall on those around him. His wife, after receiving
rough treatment from the soldiery, had died in giving birth to a
son. That son, grown up to manhood, had died at the galleys
in 1750, leaving three children, a daughter and two sons. We
have just seen the two sons at the bagnio, at Toulon. The
daughter was Madeleine, betrothed to Bruyn. No one, since
she had been carried off, had heard any tidings of her.

And yet it was to this man, so cruelly tried, that others
went to seek strength and courage. Every evening some of
the Protestants of the neighbourhood might be seen arriving
at his old house at Pont-de-Montvert. They read the Bible ;
they conversed ; they prayed. Those who came with bur-
dened hearts, went away a little less sorrowftil. Sometimes,

186 PRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

in the midst of these evening meetings, a particular knock at
the door would be heard. They started and hastened to the
door, but without a light, for the person arriving was one who
ought not to be seen from without. It was a pastor, going
his rounds, who came to seek hospitality for the night. Alas !
in that same house, notwithstanding, two had been arrested
— Dombres in 1689, and Amaud in 1718; it was even by
special favour that it had not been demolished, as the edicts
required in similar cases. But, in the choice of perils, the
pastors still preferred the pious fireside of the aged Keboul.

For some days past, however, the meetings had assumed a
different character. Pont-de-Montvert had called to mind
that it had formerly given the signal, and desired to be ready
to give it again. Young and old secretly repaired to Reboul's
house. A committee had been formed. A great meeting had
been decided on.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AMD HUGUENOTS. 187

CHAPTER IX.

It was night. Let us enter. No one had as yet arrived.
Rehoul was alone in his large kitchen, where the first council
of the insurrection was to be held in an hour. He had left
his staff in a comer. He went to and fro, as if he were but
five-and- twenty. Was he not carried back to-night to 1702 ?

He had just laid down a Bible, on a table, on the right of
the chimney. It is it, or rather God by it, that is to preside
over the meeting. He sat down before the holy book, and
collected his thoughts for an instant. He opened it, searched
out and marked two places. Which ? — we shall see presently.
He then resumed his walk ; but his step was slower, his body
less erect. It seemed as though suddenly he felt the weight
of years.

Under the outward appearance of boldness and courage,
more than one conflict, during the past days, had taken place
in his mind. Ought he, with one foot in the grave, to take
upon himself such a responsibility? He would soon escape
from the miseries of which this war might be the source, by
death ; but in what condition would he leave all those young
men whom he had drawn on to their ruin, and the country on
which he had contributed to bring down the most terrible
vengeance ?

These moments of anguish were succeeded by moments of
ardour. He had himself sufficiently braved all those dangers

188 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

to which he was about to lead on his brethren, not to be liable
to the accusation of selfishness or fear. Who would dare ask
him by what right he urged them on to war ? He had pur-
chased that right, nearly sixty years back, at the point of the
sword, and at the price of a hundred battles. Whatever
might be the result of the struggle, he would be forgiven, for
having wished to hail, before he died, the dawn of that liberty
for which he had fought in vain in his early years.

"Weill" said he; "welll" And he resumed his walk,
with his head raised, his body firm and erect. " Yes I the
measure is full — ^war I God wills it. We have waited but
too long. Yes, too long ; but no — let there be no regret. We
have indeed waited long — very long. So much the better :
our cause will but appear the more sacred in the sight of
man, as it is already in the sight of God I Come, my trusty
sword — come forth ! "

He went and opened a wardrobe. There, in a secret drawer
with which he only was acquainted, had slept for nearly half
a century, his whole Camisard equipment — a long musket, a
cuirass, taken from one of those dragoons so lamentably cele-
brated in the misfortunes of the Protestants ; a broad-brimmed
hat, two pistols, and finally the sword, the elegance of which
contrasted with the coarseness of the rest. It had descended
to him from one of his ancestors, a comrade of Henry IV. It
had figured at Ivry, at Arques ; it had thrown its weight into
the balance in favour of those Bourbons, so ready to forget to

«

whom they owe the throne.

" Here it is I" said he. " Come" — and he went and laid it
upon the Bible.

" There," resumed he ; " there. If you can do nothing now
in my hands, speak at least in my stead, to those who are
strong enough to fiight, young enough to hope."

Some friends came in at the moment*

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 189

"At last I" saidReboul.

"Are we late?"

The village clock was striking seven.

" No. I thought — this day has been so long."

They arrived one or two at a time, some by the street,
others by the garden. They had just placed a sentinel at each
entrance. The night, which was foggy and dark, favoured
the conspirators, but might also assist traitors. They there-
fore endeavoured to come in separately, and as if by chance.
Besides, the meeting was only to open at eight o'clock.

" Have you nothing to tell us while we are waiting?" said
some of the young men to the master of the house.

" To tell you, children I Have I not told you everythiflg
long ago?"

" Perhaps ; but we did not then think we should ever do as
you did — all will seem new to-night."

" What day of the month is it ? "

" The sixteenth."

" The sixteenth of December — ^very good— one of my oldest
anniversaries."

He had just sat down at the comer of the fire, in his chesnut
arm-chair. The young men formed a circle, standing round
him.

" Yes — ^that is it," said he, as if speaking to himself. " The
sixteenth of December, seventeen hundred and two. Chil-
dren," resumed he in a louder tone, " you have all seen, have
you not, the ruins of the Chjlteau de Servas, between Alais
and Uzes ? Well, there are fifty-nine years to-day since it
fell."

" Thanks to you."

" Thanks to God first, then to me, then to thirty others,
the last of whom died at least twenty years ago."

" And you took that castle ?"

190 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

"Not by assault; I had entered it my hands and feet
bound."

•* What I as a prisoner ? You told us you had never been
taken."

" Stop. That castle did us dreadful injury. There was a
garrison there, which was not numerous, but composed of all
that was most thoroughly banditti in the troops of the pro-
vince. To keep us in check, to kill some of our men when
they could, was but natural — it was their duty and their
business. But to plunder, as they did, our villages, to rob on
the high-road at midday whoever they might be pleased to
consider as Protestants, to heap together women and children
in the dungeons of the castle, was highway robbery and plun-
der, and it was urgent to put an end to it.

" What was to be done ? to attack the castle ? We should
have been crushed against its walls. Cavalier, our leader,
could not sleep for thinking of it. * Listen,' said he to me
one day. * You will allow your hands to be tied behind your
back. You must be a prisoner— one of those good-for-nothing
Camisards, that I, with a detachment of thirty men, king's
soldiers, have in charge to give up to the governor of the
castle. I shall arrive at the gate. It will be opened. I
shall go in with some of my men, with the thirty if I can,
and — ^you understand me?' 'I understand you,' said I, 'but
take care to have me unboimd when I shall want to make
use of my arms.'

" It was done. Only, to give more probability to the tale,
and also to have more men introduced into the castle, four or
five companions were joined to me.

" We arrived, they and myself, dressed as Camisards, our
guards as soldiers, and Cavalier as an officer — for we had a
provision of clothes ; the soldiers who fell beneath our balls
furnished us with a supply.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 191

" The governor received us admirably — I mean our guards,
for as to us prisoners, we were let down into a sort of ditch,
without light or air, where we could not have lived three
days. But we had not been there three minutes, when we
heard a noise, footsteps and cries. We were taken up out of
our well, arms were given us, and the castle was ours. An
hour later, a high column of flames and smoke announced the
victory of the Camisards to the whole country."

"And did they not make you pay for that victory?" in-
quired one of his hearers.

" They tried. A week after, the Sunday before Christmas,
as we were engaged in worship at Mas-Cauvi, on the estate
of St. Christal, the Chevalier de Guines came upon us with
the garrison of Alais, three or four hundred armed citizens,
and fifty gentlemen on horseback. We were altogether eighty
men, but eighty men equal to four hundred ; — ^first from our
courage — ^be it said without vanity ; besides, and chiefly, from
the terror which our name was beginning to excite. The gen-
tlemen began the assault. Our fire killed five or six, and
wounded a dozen. We rushed forward, without waiting for a
second attack. We threw them back upon the soldiers ; the
soldiers, thrown back, retreated upon the citizens — in a twink-
ling, gentlemen, citizens, soldiers, were all fleeing as fast as
they could. We pursued them as long as we could, nearly
to the gates of Alais, and returned quietly to finish the service.
We had not lost a man, we had not even received a scratch.
Mark this, children ; see what you can do when Grod and the
right is on your side."

Eeboul was beginning to be excited. His eyes sparkled ;
it seemed as though he smelt powder.

The circle had enlarged, but no one now asked questions.
Why ask them ? They had but to let the sanguinary torrent of
his remembrances take its course. " Yes," resumed he, " mark

FSAHCB BBFOBE THE BETOLCTIOK.

tliiB, my friends ; and mark it well, you, too, our tnH8t«Tvl
When we could not nse etrengtli, we had recourse to cimningJ
when the lion, too closely pursued, was forced to bide himi
he became a serpent. A fortnight had hardly elapeed aii
the taking of the castle, when we entered Suave in the
way, a very ]arge village, almost a town, with walls, gates,
and a regular gEurison. It is true, that we were that day
nearly three hundred, Cavalier imd Roland having nnited
their forces. Fifty of us dressed ourselves as king's soldii
We arrived — drums beating, and officers at our head — at
gate of the place ; we gave ourselves out for a detachment
pursuit of the rebels. The gates were opened, and we were'
received as deliverers. The soldiers, drawn up in order of
battle on the square, had refreshments brought them ; the
officers were invited to dine with M. de Vibrac, the lord of
the place. But scarcely had they sat down to table, when
the approach of the Camisards was announced with a greal,
noise. We hastened to the gate to defend it, as we said, anj'^
we opened it. Our friends entered; the garrison and citizenB
did not even try to resist. They expected, poor people, to bft'
put to the sword ; but that day we only seized upon armB-
and atu munition. We made ample provision of both, and de^*-!
parted. Oh ! I forgot, we burned the church, and we eilib^
the priest."

Reboul paused for a moment, as if to judge of the
produced by these last words.

They looked at him with surprise. "Tho priest 1"
mured they, "the priest I"

" Well, yes," said he, " the priest. Does that astonish
you ? So much the better ; you will be better than we were.
Yes, we wore cruel. Yes, we were too often like the asaasRns
sent out into our viUages, Pity us, children, pity lis;
may it please Grod to forget oui crimes 1 But before

iersj^l

m

]

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 193

demning ds, think for a moment what we were, what our
enemies were, to what shame and distress we had submitted
in silence before being brought to that. You are under laws
of iron, it is true ; but at least they are laws. As for us, we
had as many masters, or rather as many executioners, as there
were priests and soldiers in the country. The edicts are not
mitigated; but they have ended by becoming a complete
system of legislation. By dint of oppressing, they protect
you. Everything is regulated; you know what to seek or
avoid, what to fear or desire. Then, there was as it were
only one edict, one word of command — to annihilate us as
soon as possible, and at any price. Besides, you are bom
under the yoke ; but we had seen all that our ancestors had
conquered taken from us, all those rights that we considered
secured by a solemn edict, and almost a century of possession.
You do not intend to bum churches ? So much the better ;
but you have not seen, as we did, five hundred of our temples
fall beneath the hammer of the destroyer. You do not mean
to shoot priests ? So much the better ; but you do not know
what the priests of that day were. What is that fox of an
Abbe Chamay compared to that tiger of an Abbe Chayla,
who had his den precisely here, at the end of the bridge, two
steps from my house? The Abbe Chayla I his very name
made people shudder. For fifteen years he was the public
executioner of the country; for fifteen years he passed his
days and nights in inventing new persecutions, and new tor-
tures. He had arrived amongst us in 1687, with the title of
Inspector of Missions in the Cevennes. Inspector^ indeed I —
for there was not a house which he left unsearched, not a
violation of the edicts but he knew it, and washed it out in
blood. To torture was his happiness — his life. We knew
that the house which he had made his fortress, and which
formerly belonged to one of our brethren, Andre, who had

VOL. n. N

~'fi£StX BEFORE THE KETOLUTION.

been assasfdnated by the Chevalier de Genne, waa porpetnulfy
full of Protestants, from the cellars to the attics, dying Xrf^
inches in his handB. He kept them for months in the stocks,
with hoth their feet and legs confined at once, so that tbej
could neither rise up nor sit down. He plucked out the hair
of their heads, their beards, and their eyebrows with pincers.
He put live coals into their hands, and held them closed till
the coals were extinguisheiL At other times, he wrapped
their fingers in cotton dipped in oil ; he set fire tfl it, and tl
fingers were burnt to the very bone.*

" Those, however, were but his pastimes with snch a
not guilty enough to be broug'ht to trial. Wherever he h
self saw sufficient charges against his victims, or could hcf
they would be seen, he called in the judges, that is to a
the executioner ; for there was no instance of those whoa
death he demanded having failed to be condeomed. The
edicts only punished actions ; but he had assumed the juris*
diction of an inquisitor. Words, looks, feelings, all were
matter for trial. A poor girl of this place. Prances Brez, wa|
hanged for having said that we ought not to adore the waf
From this very window I saw her led to death.

" Well, beneath such atrocious oppression, none thought II
yet of resisting and taking up arms. We were suffering — yn

i perishing ; but we desired to be, to the last, a
led to the slaughter.

" God did not allow it. The Abb6 Chayla was doomed h
die, TTJB death was to give the signal of the iusurrection.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 196

' " And yet, God knows I — the very day that we rushed upon
that accursed house, not one of us as yet dreamed of unbrumg
his hands in the blood of the Abbe Chayla. We only in-
tended to deliver his victims, one especially, that several of
you have known, and who was to be put to death on the fol-
lowing day. What had he done ? He had served as guide
to the Protestants of Moissac, who wished to take refuge at
Geneva. His relations, his friends, had thrown themselves
afc the feet of the priest ; but he had laughed at their suppli-
cations, and mocked at their tears. One day, when we were
assembled together at Mount Bouges, thie wife, brother, and
children of Massip arrived. Their cries and groans inter-
rupted the service. * To-morrow,' said they, * to-morrow he
dies I And will you let him die ?' We looked at each other
in silence. We had just prayed for him ; as for delivering
him, none had thought of it. The boldest turned pale, not
from fear — ^we have given proofs of the contrary — ^but the
thought of rebellion was so far removed from our minds.
* Must he then die I ' cried the poor wife. * Must he die ! '
repeated his poor children. * He shall not die I ' I exclaimed ;
and that very instant the resolution was taken, and the plan
formed.

" We were fifty men assembled there. We appointed to
meet in the evening at the same spot.

" All came. Our arms consisted of some swords, some old
halberds, ten or twelve muskets ; many had only staves.
Such was the beginning of that army, the leader of which
was at last to treat with one of Louis XIV.'s marshals on
equal terms.

" Children, I am eighty-three ; but were I to live as many
years over again, I should never forget that evening I it was
in the month of July. The night came on late, but it was
dark, damp, and suffocating. One of those uncertain storms

196 PRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

that enervate both soul and body, had long been suspended
in the atmosphere ; it seemed only to wait to burst forth till
we should be ready to act. Night, the approach of danger,
and still more the novelty of the enterprise, all contributed
to our emotion. As for me, my thoughts went further. I
had read the beginning of the Swiss history ; I knew how a
people is formed. Were we about to become one I a people !
Was this lonely meadow to be our Griitli I Alas I it has re-
mained unknown. Of all those whose footprints were upon
it that night, I alone am now alive. And never have I seen
it since but it has seemed to me red with blood I

" We prayed ; we set out. It was midnight. The storm
was coming on ; the lightning showed us our path. At a
hundred paces from the village, we were still praying. And
suddenly our enemy heard a gloomy chant, mingling with
the rolling of the distant thunder. It was our party entering
the village slowly and in good order, as we raised the psalm,
which has since become our war-song : — .»

' Let God, the God of battles rise.

And scatter His presumptuous foes ;
Let shameftil rout their host surprise.
Who spitefully His power oppose.'

" We surrounded the house ; we demanded the prisoners. No-
thing stirred ; nothing appeared. We drew nearer. " Firel*'
said a voice within, that of the abbe himself. Several shots
were fired from the windows, killed one of our men, and
wounded two or three. Then we threw ourselves against the
door ; we broke it in ; we rushed to the dungeons. Grood
God I what a spectacle was there I Some were in irons,
their hands, by a refinement of barbarity, fastened behind
their backs. Beside these unfortunate beings, who were al-
ways lying on the ground, were others, always standing, their
arms drawn upwards to the ceiling, bowed down beneath the
pressure of dreadful fatigue. We unbound them ; they fell

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 197

down. We wept ; we stormed. Suddenly, as if inspired by
a demon, * The abbe I ' we all exclaimed at once. * The
abb6 I where is the abbe?* The abb6 tried to escape. He
was taken ; he was brought before his victims. We rushed
upon him. — Did I strike him ? I know not. I have been
told that he begged for his life. * If I have lost my soul by
persecuting you,' he said, ' will you on that account lose yours
by killing me V But I heard nothing ; I listened to nothing ;
I saw nothing. It seemed to me as though all those brethren
to whose tortures we had just put a stop, all those who had
fallen victims to them, all who were groaning at the galleys,
who had perished on the gallows or the wheel, all, all, in a
word, whether dead or alive, were gathered round that man,
pointing him out, marking him on the forehead with a sign
of blood ; I seemed to hear them all crying out, * No pity
for him who has never shown pity I'

" And yet, amidst the agitations of war, the remembrance
of that murder has often brought remorse with it. Often
amidst our reverses, we said to each other sorrowfully,
* Why did we kill the Abbe Chayla ? It was a bad begin-
ing. God is punishing us for it.' Often, even amidst our
successes, when we happened to view more calmly that long
extermination of which we were the instruments — * Why did
we kill the Abbe Chayla?' we said again. * It is to punish
us for his death, that God makes us kill so many others. We
have dipped our feet in blood ; and are now condemned to
swim in it r Oh I no, children, no ; let there be no wilful
bloodshed I None other than that which shall be honourably
shed, if it must be so, in battle I Fifty years of suffering
have washed out the stain on our banner. It is pure — keep
it pure I And may all the friends of the Gospel, to whatever
nation they belong, accompany it with their prayers and their
sympathy I"

^9^ fHAMCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

AM WW© now arrived ; the narrative of the aged Reboul
Wd Wn listened to, in religious silence. At length, with-
Wlt leaving the fireside, he turned his ann-chair towards
th<> assembly. All sat down. The table, on which we have
seen him place the Bible, was put before him. He remained
a moment in silent prayer, then opened it.

It was at the first pages of the book of Nehemiah. That
simple story of the misfortunes of the people of God was so
applicable, so full of interest, to the oppressed Protestants I
Those sighs, those hopes, consolations, and promises, suited
them so. well I How they followed the captive Jews to the
inhospitable shores of the Euphrates ! How they longed
with the earnest desires of their whole hearts, for the return
of those same Jews to the land of their ancestors I The cap-
tivity, return, rebuilding of the temple, all, in a word, all, was
to them both type and prophecy. They viewed themselves
in those descriptions ; they read there, in indelible charac-
ters, the assurance of a happier future. When should these
promises be accomplished ? when should the dawn of liberty
and peace arise upon their mountains? when should their
temples be raised up again? Alas I after so many disap-
pointed hopes, they gave up inquiring into the future.
Voices that they might have believed inspired, had predicted,
at the beginning of the century, the speedy close of their suf-
ferings. The century was passing away, and their sufferings
were not ended. Their prophets had been either madmen or
liars; they now looked up to God — to God only. " He who has
given the promises," said they, "will surely find means to
accomplish them." Thus they were comforted while reading
them, and they ever seemed more beautiful, consolatory, and
divine.

" * And it came to pass, in the month Chisleu, in the
twentieth year, as I was in Shushan the palace,

PBIE8TS, INFIDELS, AMD HUGUENOTS. 199

' " ' That Hanani, one of my brethren, came, he and cer-
tain men of Judah ; and I asked them concerning the Jews that
had escaped, which were left of the captivity, and concerning
Jerusalem.

" * And they said mito me : The remnant that are left of
the captivity there in the province are in great affliction and
reproach : the wall of Jerusalem also is broken down, and
the gates thereof are burned with fire.

" * And it came to pass, when I heard these words, that I
sat down and wept, and mourned certain days, and fasted, and
prayed before the God of heaven,

" * And said : I beseech thee, Lord God of heaven, the
great and terrible God, that keepeth covenant and mercy for
them that love him and observe his commandments :

" ' Let thine ear now be attentive, and thine eyes open,
that thou mayest hear the prayer of thy servant, which I pray
before thee now, day and night, for the children of Israel thy
servants, and confess the sins of the children of Israel, which
we have sinned against thee : both I and my father's house
have sinned.

" * We have dealt very corruptly against thee, and have
not kept the commandments, nor the statutes, nor the judg-
ments, which thou commandedst thy servant Moses.

" ' Remember, I beseech thee, the word that thou com-
mandedst thy servant Moses, saying. If ye transgress, I will
scatter you abroad among the nations :

" ' But if ye turn unto me, and keep my commandments,
and do them ; though there were of you cast out unto the
uttermost part of the heaven, yet will I gather them from
thence, and will bring them unto the place that I have
chosen to set my name there.' "

The return^ always the return^ was the favourite idea and.
the constant absorbing thought of these men exiled and in

200 FRANCE BEFORE THE BEYOLUTION.

servitude, even in the bosom of their own country ; but the
most touching feature in their prayers, was the deep humiUty
with which they accepted the most cruel effects of man's
wickedness, as chastisements from God. Their liturgies,
prayers, hymns, the exhortations of their pastors, are all
filled and deeply impregnated with this idea. There were
never any proud comparisons between the austerity of their
own morals and the corruption of the times ; never a suspicion
that before God, before the Holy One, they were more worthy
than others, or that their sins needed less to be washed in the
blood of the cross. It was with their whole hearts that they
said with Nehemiah —

" We have sinned against thee : we have not kept the
commandments, nor the statutes, nor the judgments, which
thou commandedst."

To these cries uttered by one man of God, another man of
God was to reply.

We have seen Beboul mark two places in his Bible. He
opened it at the second, and read : —

" ' Comfort ye, comfort ye my people, saith your God.

" ' Speak ye comfortably to Jerusalem, and cry unto her,
that her warfare is accomplished, that her iniquity is par-
doned, for she hath received of the Lord's hand double for all
her sins.

" ' Why sayest thou, Jacob, and speakest, Israel, My
way is hid from the Lord, and my judgment is passed over
from my God ?

" ' He giveth power to the faint : and to them that have
no might he increaseth strength.

" ' But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their
strength ; they shall mount up with wings as eagles ; they shall
run, and not be weary ; and they shall walk, and not faint.

^^ ^ Zion, that bringest good tidings, get thee up into the

PBIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 201

high mountain : Jerusalem, that bringest good tidings,
lift up thy voice with strength ; lift it up, be not afraid ; say
unto the cities of Judah, Behold your God I

" ' He shall feed his flock like a shepherd : he shall gather
the lambs with his arm, and carry them in his bosom, and
shall gently lead those that are with yoimg.

" * All nations before him are as nothing : and they are
counted to him less than nothing, and vanity.

" * That bringeth the princes to nothing : he maketh the
judges of the earth as vanity.

" ' Yea, they shall not be planted ; yea, they shall not be
sown : yea, their stock shall not take root in the earth : and
he shall also blow upon them, and they shall wither, and the
whirlwind shall take them away.' "

One would have said, at these words, that the breath which
was to blow upon the kings of the earth, and take them away,
was already passing through the assembly. Eyes kindled ;
hands were convulsively clasped. A secret enthusiasm was
gathering in all hearts. But the fire was sufficiently kindled,
perhaps too much, Keboul stopped.

" My brethren," said he, after a moment's silence, " we are
not to be that whirlwind. Let us not take upon ourselves a
mission that God would not confirm. Let us take up arms
that we may have the right to live. Let us seek to be
allowed to build up in peace, not to overthrow. As soon as
we have obtained justice, we shall bow once more as humble
subjects, beneath the sceptre which God has appointed to
rule over us.

" But till then, let us go forward, brethren I the time of
patience is gone by. No I it cannot be the will of God that
we should longer witness the ruin of our churches, without
resistance. It cannot be His will that we should continue
to allow those leaders, those fathei*s in the faith that He him-

202 FRANCE BEFOBE THE REVOLUTION.

self has given us, to be sacrificed. Let us save them or perish
with them !

" Brethren, it is a dreadful thing to shed blood I I know
it. I who have shed so much in times gone by — and yet it
it is I — I — the last of the Camisards — ^after fifty years of
patience— it is I who say to you, * Go forward.'

"What shall we do? Where shall we begin? We do
not as yet know. We shall this evening try, by God's help,
to trace out a route, to calculate and organize our resources.
But that which each one of us has had it in his power to do,
and ought to have done already in the secret of his own con-
science, is to inquire why he has come here, and with what
object he is going to take up arms. Let those who feel
themselves stimulated by thoughts of vengeance, go back !
Let those who seek for vain-glory, go baok I Let those who
do not think only of God and their salvation, go back I Let
not those fight I They are not worthy. They could but
draw down on our cause the contempt of man and the anger
of God.

" Ejieel, then, brethren, kneel, all of you. And let each
one, before God, and imploring Him to enlighten his con-
science, ask himself once more these questions."

There ensued a deep silence. All the Cevenols, on their
knees, their hands clasped, and their eyes fixed on the ground,
examined the recesses of their hearts.

These solemn forms were customary in their services.
Often, especially on their fast-days, the officiating pastor
paused to order one of these acts of self-examination ; they
were solemn appeals, which ran no risk in these perilous
assemblies of degenerating into vain appearances.

Beboul also had knelt down. His forehead leaned on the
Bible. Only his white hair and his clasped hands were to
be seen.

PBIESTB, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 203

At length he rose, and when all had risen likewise —
" Brethren,'' said he, ^^ listen to me now ; and answer, not
me, but God. Are you stiU decided ?''

" Yes," they replied.

" Beady to suffer everything ?"

" Yes."

** To avenge yourselves of your oppressors ?"

" No."

^ Do you hate those against whom you will have to
fight?"

« No."

" Will you continue to be the king's subjects ?"

" God save the king ! "

" Your only desire is to be able to live in peace, bring up
your children, and serve God?"

'* Yes."

" Do you swear to this ?"

" We swear it."

" Well, then, once more, go forward I Go forward with
upright hearts and pure hands I — ^from this moment, the
sword may be drawn out of its scabbard."

Beboul had laid hold of his own sword. He half drew it.
He stopped.

" My God," said he, " dost Thou sanction it ? What if
we were mistaken? What if, while we thought to serve
Thee, we were going to incur Thy displeasure ? But no ;
Thou wouldest stop us. Thou wouldest not suffer us thus
to lose all in this world and the next."

And with a hand that trembled from agitation, now he
pushed back the sword into the scabbard ; now he drew it
again, but slowly, as if he would have postponed the fatal
moment when the point should be seen. Once drawn, it
appeared to him that war was inevitable, and he was alarmed

204 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

at feeling the symbol of it in his power. At last, and this
time, it was the point that was seen.

"There it is," said he.. Then, in a lower tone: — "My
Grod I when will it return thither ?"

But unutterable astonishment was suddenly depicted in the
eyes of his hearers. He had himself heard a movement be-
hind him, near a door which opened at the side of the chimney.
At the same instant, a hand was laid upon his arm.

" Keboul," said a well-known voice, " put back the sword
into the scabbard. It is written, that he that smiteth with
the sword shall perish by the sword."

It was Kabaut. How came he to be there ? What, then,
had passed since the news of his arrest had put the Cevenols
into such agitation ? It is time that we relate it.

On leaving the Tower, he had been deposited in a room
belonging to the Major^s apartments. Two sentinels were
outside the door, two others were pacing under the window.
But even if he had not heard their footsteps, the idea of flight
would not have occurred to him. He was annihilated, broken
down. A supernatural effort had sustained him, but it had
exhausted all the energies of his mind. Twenty years of
danger, which he had braved with as much courage as suc-
cess, had made him, as we have already said, somewhat of
a fatalist. No one could be more resigned to the will of
God ; no one, however, could have been more authorized to
believe, up to that moment, that God was with him and for
him. He had believed himself invulnerable, and had just
seen that he was not. The charm was broken. He resigned
himself to his fate. All that remained for him to do was to
acquiesce without a murmur, and to die.

He did not murmur ; but he had not as yet measured the
extent of his misfortune. The greater and the more sudden
the fall, the more time it takes to realize it. Only moderate

PRIEBTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 205

griefe take tip at once in the heart all the room which they
are to occupy. It is with the heart as with a vase ; drops
enter it without difficulty, and yet a torrent, into which yon
plunge it up to the brim, will only gradually fill it. But
jfrom moment to moment he felt the wound growing deeper.
In proportion as he recovered from the first shock, he reviewed
all that made his heart bleed, and wearied himself by reckon-
mg up aU his Bufferings.

As for the thought of death, he needed neither to approach
nor to shun it. It was an old acquaintance, whether friend
or enemy, with which he was too well accustomed to live on
familiar terms, to view it as more terrible at this moment
than at any other. Death, therefore, was of but little moment
to him ; but to feel himself torn from those churches of which,
next to God, he was the pillar, from that apostleship which
had become his very existence, from those brethren in the
ministry whom he loved and to whom he was so necessary,
from that wife who had shared all his dangers, from that son
whose first steps in the same path he had rejoiced to have
soon to guide ; — there was the poignancy of suffering — there
was the anguish.

Then, again, in the midst of his wandering life, he had
contracted an invincible need of motion, air, space. Not an
hour had elapsed since that door had been closed upon him,
and yet he already experienced the ennui of a long captivity.
He was suffocated in that chamber ; he walked up and down
in it, agitated and uneasy, like the animal of the forest in its
narrow cage ; at each turn he took it seemed to narrow be-
neath his steps. At length he sat down ; some tears escaped
from his eyes ; something of peace descended upon his heart.
He had strength to pray, and he thanked God for having
restored it to him.

The report of a pistol was heard. M. d'Ambly had shot

5^06 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

himself. The nnhappy man had been unable to bear the feel-
ing of his crime and shame. An act of treachery lay heavy
on the heart of the old soldier.

It was not, however, with him that the idea had originated.
He who had bribed his conscience, as formerly that of Bruyn,
was the eternal enemy of Kabaut and of the Protestants — ^it
was Chamay. He happened accidentally to be at Aigues-
Mortes in making his circuit. He had been informed of the
promised visit to the prisoners by M. d'Ambly himself. The
Major, aware of his animosity, had spoken of the circumstance
to him as an extraordinary one, but as an affair with which
Chamay himself had nothing to do. As for an act of
treachery, as he had never thought of such a thing in the
course of his life, so neither did he suppose that any one else
could think of requiring it of him. Chamay, therefore, took
care not to mention it to him at first. He treated the matter
as a jest.

" M. Kabaut, really and traly ?"

" Really and tmly."

" The next thing would be to invite him to dinner, and me
with him."

" There is no objection. They say he is very good com-
pany ; shall I do it?"

But the Jesuit changed the conversation. He felt that
after a meal taken together, the proposal to betray his guest
would assume such odious colours that the Major would never
be brought to it. At one moment he thought of leaving him
out of the plot. Nothing was easier than to have Rabaut
arrested at his entrance or his exit ; but by this means the
Jesuit would take upon himself and his party all the odium.
He would only adopt that measure at the last extremity, on
the formal refusal of the govemor. He had, besides, still two
or three days before him ; nothing obliged him to decide at once.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 207

The very next day, chance, or rather design, threw him in
the way of the Major. They conversed for a moment ; they
were about to separate — " Apropos," said Chamay ; " I have
thought of you all night."

"Of me?"

" Of you. Do you know, that if people were to know what
you told me" —

" By whom should it be made known ? not by you 1 "

"What are you thinking of? But, after all, it may be
known. And M. de St. Florentin never trifles."

" Faith I you are perhaps right. All things considered,
when this Kabaut comes, I shall have him requested to go
away." This was not what Chamay wanted.

" Send him away I" said he. " However, if it came to the
point — ^well, you will think over it."

In the evening they met again at supper at the house of the
priest of Aigues-Mortes. The Major took Chamay aside.

" I have thought over it," said he to him ; " in tmth, I do
not well know what to do. To send him away would be
singular ; to admit him — yes, as you say, M. de St. Florentin
is not a man to be trifled with ; after having guarded others,
I might perhaps be guarded myself."

" You have taken a taste for the business, I think."

" That is exactly why I should not like to change situa-
tions ; although, to say the truth, Aigues-Mortes appears to
me already something very like a prison."

" Are you tired of being here ?"

" Pretty well. I have lived at Paris, dear Father"—

" And would like to die there."

" I should like still better to live there — ^but how ? Here
I am ; I am left here, like a rasty bolt, as I am."

" Good bolts have their value, Major ; they are wanted at
Paris as well."

208 FRANCE BEFOBE THE REVOLUTION.

" Yes, at the Bastile ; but they have enough of them with-
out me, unfortunately."

" There is a place vacant, notwithstanding.'^

"Which?"

" That of sub-governor, I believe."

" Do not speak of it. You make my mouth water."

" The Bastile is in M. de St. Florentin's department."

*' What does that prove ?"

" That M. de St. Florentin may give you the said post, if
he likes."

" That is evident ; but what reason has he to do so ?"

" How can I tell ? Kecommendations" —

" From whom ? Who still thinks of me ? "

" Some remarkable service" —

" Kemarkable service ! At Aigues-Mortes ? Keeping guard
over my five-and-twenty old women?"

" Listen to me. Five-and-twenty heads have been intrusted
to you" —

" Yes, five-and-twenty. What of that ? "

"Well, if — suppose you were to give up six-and twenty" —
. D'Ambly shrunk back, as if he trod on a serpent. But the
serpent had bitten him. It was in vain that he went away,
casting a look of anger and contempt upon the Jesuit. The
poison was in his veins.

Shall we finish, in all its details, the story of his seduction ?
Shall we relate his sufferings, his long struggles with himself,
and with Father Chamay, for the latter gradually proceeded
to speak openly to him, to urge, to command, as he had done
in the case of Bruyn? We have seen the result of the
struggle. M. d'Ambly had arrested the minister; then,
overcome with shame and remorse, a shot had put an end to
his misery, — at least, on earth !

But why, instead of putting an end to his own life, had he

FBIESTS, IMTIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. ^09

not simply restored tHe minister to liberty ? He had it in his
power — ^he dared not. He did not even think of it. Chamay
was there ; Chamay fascinated him by his looks. The old
soldier, when he sold his honour to him, had sold his courage,
his soul, his whole being. Hardly had he returned to his
own apartments with that prisoner whom he dared not look
in the face, when he went and shut himself up in an inner
room ; and it was there that the soldiers, who had hurried
thither on hearing the noise, found him dead.

The consequent commotion throughout the whole house was
great. Kabaut heard criea and footsteps. A voice that was
unknown to him, but the sound of which, harsh and autho*
ritative, reached him amidst the noise, appeared to be giving
orders. It was that of Chamay. He had assumed the com-
mand of the house, and the soldiers obeyed without a word.
Besides, they knew him to be the real general-in-chief of all
the troops intended to act against the Protestants.

Suddenly, Babaut heard something like an altercation
between him and another person, who, as it appeared, had
just arrived. The people who were coming and going became
silent. The two voices drew nearer, more and more irritated.

"Am I then condemned," exclaimed the one, "to meet
you wherever any villany is going on ?"

" Those who meet me there," said the other, " are appa-
rently already there themselves."

" Yes, those that you urge thither."

" Or that you help me to urge."

"Sir I"

"Yes. Have you, then, forgotten that C6venol" —

" Indeed ! Do you think that because I have been once
your accomplice, I am going to remain under your yoke ?
Let me undeceive you. Treachery failed there ; it will fieiil
again."

VOL. 11. o

210 FRANCE BEFORE THE RETOLUTION.

" Happily, he is under lock and key."

"Really?''

" He is my prisoner."

"There is no prisoner here. There is only a man
who has been arrested traitorously, and who shall be set
at liberty."

" Would you dare to — ?"

" Who is master here, sir ?"

" The king ; and it is the king's will that a rebel should
not be allowed to escape."

" I stand in the king's place at Aigues-Mortes ; and the
rdfel shall be let out."

The voice continued to draw nearer. The other speaker
seemed to be running after the one who had just spoken.

" Colonel," cried he ; " Colonel, look to yourself ; it shall
all be made known."

" Yes, all, all ; do not be uneasy about that. It shall be
known that a brave officer has shot himself for having
yielded for a moment to your advice."

They had reached the door. Rabaut could hardly breathe
fjx)m anguish and astonishment.

"Colonel I Colonel I" still cried the Jesuit. "In God's
name" —

" In the devil's name, hold your tongue I Sentinels, take
him away."

" You shall not open" —

" I shall open."

The door opened.

Overcome by emotion, Rabaut had fallen down on a seat.
He could scarcely rise to meet his deliverer.

" Sir," said the latter, " you are free. Go wherever you
please, but as quickly as possible," added he, lowering his
voice. " Go ; in an hour — in less perhaps, I shall be no

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 211

longer master. These people know everything, see every-
thing, are able to do everything. You have understood me,
doubtless. If Father Charnay" —

" Charnay ! " said the minister.

" Yes. Ah I true I — ^perhaps you do not know him ?"

« No."

" I understand ; you could not guess. But, at all events,
his name is known to you ; of his hatred you have had suffi-
cient proofis ; as to his power — faith I only he himself knows
where it begins and where it ends. Therefore, let there be
no delay. I shall see that you are escorted as far as the inn.
Gfet your horse saddled and set off."

" May I at least know to whom I owe'* —

'* The Marquis de Namiers, sir."

This time Babaut thought he had fallen from Scylla into
Charybdis. Gould this name signify anything but a fresh
snare ? He fell back a step or two. Distrust and contempt
were already depicted on his countenance.

"Sir," said the Marquis, proudly, but yet with mildness,
" you would insult me ; unfortunately you have a right to do
so; time is precious, let us not waste it in explanations.
When you are in safety, perhaps you will be more disposed to
grant me your esteem. Go."

Ten minutes later, Babaut had left Aigues-Mortes, and
was taking the road to Toulon. It was two o'clock in the
morning.

At break of day, the Jesuit passed out by the same gate,
and took the same road. He had been informed, still by the
Major, of the intended visit to the convicts. He was there-
fore going to see whether he might not be more fortunate at
Toulon than at Aigues-Mortes. As he had won over M.
d'Ambly, he might win over M. d'Origny ; and M. d'Origny
perhaps, would not shoot himself. Of course he would not

212 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

tell him why the Major had committed suicide. Then he
would know how to manage, so as that the prisoner, once
more caught in the snare, should stand no chance of
escaping.

But his project was destined to fail at both ends.

First, the superintendent at the galleys was not a second
d'Ambly. Chamay was a week at Toulon before he ventured
to touch upon his subject. When he did at last venture,.
M. d'Origny was long before he even understood him, and
afterwards had very nearly thrown him out of the window.
This was the cause of M. d'Origny's ill-temper at the time of
the arrival of the convicts from Toulouse, for the scene had
just taken place.

Kabaut, on his part, hesitated very much whether he should
go to Toulon. He was sure of the superintendent ; but Char-
nay might lay hold of him through others. He was pursuing
his road, however, when, at the house of a friend on the way,
he found letters which summoned him to Toulouse. He went
thither, therefore, and without delay, for they related to very
serious matters. He was there while the news of his arrest
was spreading throughout the province ; it was from thence
that he arrived at the moment that we have seen him enter
the house of Reboul.

PRIESTS, IMFIDEIiS, AND HUGUENOTS. 213

CHAPTER X.

How can we describe the joy of his friends ? Their projects
have sujBficiently shown how dear he was to them. This joy,
however, was not without alloy in all of them. The most
ardent — ^those who had eagerly longed for the moment of
throwing off the yoke — foresaw, and not without foundation,
that his deliverance would change the intentions of the
greater number. They had risen up on his account ; he was
safe, and the scrupulous or the lukewarm would begin once
more to preach submission. His look, his first words to
Reboul, his well-known habits, all announced, likewise, that
he would be the first to preach it.

Reboul had half obeyed. He had not replaced the sword
in the scabbard ; he had only laid it upon the table.

"Friends," resumed the pastor, "what have I learned?
Plans of insurrection 1 plans for war I"

" For your sake," said Reboul.

" For my sake, I know it ; I have been proud of it, too
proud perhaps. That which years of suffering had not effected,
the news of my misfortune has done in a few days. What a
reward, my friends, for the little that I have been permitted
to do for you and for your cause I How eager I ought to be,
you think — ^for I have already read it in your eyes — how
eager I ought to be to enter into projects to which I have
given rise I But, you see, it is not I who will not have it so,
it is God. He has permitted you to take up arms for my sake^

214 YRAXCE lUUPQKi: THE KETC^jmCRC.

and at the rery moment that jon were going to pat your
handu to the work, I am here ! Do yon not believe that it is
Ho who nendfl me ? and if it is He, who can dare to think that
it i» not to stop you ? — Bat, Beboal, what is the matter with
yoa ?"

Ecboal sat down sorrowfolly.

" It is all over," said he, " it is all over. We have lived
slaves, and slaves we shall die."

"And we shall rise free — have yoa forgotten that,
Boboul?"

There wore others who had forgotten it as well as he.
When men have had a glimpse of liberty, even though it is to
bo attained through seas of blood, it is not all at once that
thoy can come back to the humility of the slave, and the resig-
nation of the Christian.

" Roboul is right," said a voice.

" He is right," repeated five or six others. " To sufifer fw
•vor^— to wait for ever — ^we will not bear it"

" Wo will not bear it," said almost all of them.

But Bivbaut, who was bending down over the old man,
had drawn himself up at these last words. He had moved
back a stop, his arms folded. A feeling of repentance was
sprini^ing up already even in those who murmured.

*^You will not?" siud he. "As you please. Go; bat
romomWr one tiling — you go not with my blessing."

Thoy bwat thoir eyes to the ground.

" Forj^ivo \i8," said some of them.

** PiMTgivo yvfcu ?" rt^sumed he, in a milder tone. " It is not
mo whom yvm have ofiondod. May God forgive yoa, indeed I
and if it bo only noodod to ask Him, I am ready. — We w3i
m4! What! who aw wi\ worms of the earth, to say, *We
will noi')^ Hv^w lon^ is it, then, since God has ceased to
UaY^ tho solo ri^t uid power to will? Eoi, aftn* mD, ewQ

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 215

if you had the right, my friends, have you the power ? I did
not speak to you at first of the obstacles to be surmounted ; I
wished that a nobler, a more Christian motive should act
upon you beforehand ; but these obstacles are absolutely in-
surmountable, unless you reckon upon prodigies. Did you
hope to raise the province? Undeceive yourselves. The
province is not what it formerly was. Indifference, attach-
ment to the comforts of life, fear, in short, since the whole
truth must be told, have penetrated everywhere. Beyond
your mountains, the most zealous would tremble. If you were
the victors, what means would you have of profiting by your
success? If vanquished, you would be completely crushed.
Your brethren would pity you, perhaps admire you ; but as
for joining you, they neither would nor could. No, my
friends, let there be no illusion. The time is not yet come.
Will it ever come ? God only knows ; but it is not for us to
hasten it otherwise than by our prayers."

The irritation of feeling had subsided, but it might be fol-
lowed by depression. Babaut therefore did not leave the
subject till he had restored to his hearers, as he knew so well
how to do it, that serenity of mind which alone constitutes
true courage and true resignation. He raised them by faith
above the miiseries as well as the joys of this world. There
were no more illusions, but also no more of that mere human
violence which had rendered them necessary. The past was
dark, the ftiture darker still ; but they cast all upon God, the
great comforter of all who suffer.

He then related to them his visit to Aigues-Mortes, his
ca|>tivity and deliverance. They prayed together, and sepa-
rated. It had been agreed that they should send to all parts
of the country to give notice of his return, and of their giving
up all projects of a rising. An hour later, a simple supper
was served up on the same table on which we have seen the

il^ fRASCE BEFORE THE BEVOLUTION.

sword and the Bible. Eabaut, his host, and two friends, had
jost seated themselves round it.

"Well, dear pastor," said Eeboul, " you come from Toulouse^
How are our concerns going on there ?"

" Very badly."

"So there is no hope ?"

" I do not think there is."

"PoorCalaal"

" Poor Eochette ! "

" We had almost forgotten them these last few days."

" To think only of me."

" Ah I you see that you — you" —

" Say no more about it, Eeboul. — Kind friends ! "

He pressed his hand, and they remained a moment silent*

" You were thinking of me," resumed he ; " well, I, too,
was thinking of you. Do you know what was one of the
things that pursued me at Aigues-Mortes during that inter-
minable hour ? Precisely the thought of the happiness I had
so often enjoyed in the evening, after fatiguing or perilous
days, under the hospitable roofs where I passed the night."

" And is not mine of that number ?"

" Is it not, indeed, Eeboul ! "

" But it is very sad, now. My poor children I If yon had
only seen them at Toulon — ^for they are, I think, there---they
must have arrived. What good you would have done them t

" Take courage, Eeboul. God is with them.

" And with us — ^when you are with us."

" When I am with you I Why not always ?"

" You see that we were going to commit an act of folly.

They spoke of other things ; subjects were not wanting.
Besides perils and sufferings, there were all the details of the
internal administration that we have seen restored by Antoine
Court, which had at this period reached a degree of regularity

if

PRIESTS, INFTOELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 217.

that would have been admired in the midst of peace. Every
church had its consistory, the inflexible guardian of discipline
and morals. Without a consistory, it would have ceased to
rank in the number of churches. Such was the bearing of
a decree of 1723 : " Seeing that in towns and other places
where there are no elders, scandals and disorders have taken
place, it has been resolved that they shall be immediately
established ; and in default of so doing, and if there should
be refusal on the part of the congregation, they shall neither
be visited by the pastors, nor informed of the assembUeSy so
that they may attend them J ^ Shall we say that this was
severe ? Let us rather say sublime, and we shall be nearer
the truth. Appoint elders, or you will not be convoked to
attend those assemblies, which lead straight to the galleys or
to death. Never had the language of honour said more in
fewer words and with less pretension.

The consistories had a great deal to do. Their principal
avocations were the registering of births, deaths, and mar-
riages, the finances, charities, superintendence of morals, or-
ganization and police of the assemblies for worship. It was
a state within the state ; but a state whose existence de-
pended upon its being unrecognised. The simplest matter of
business was complicated by never-ending precautions.

Thus Reboul and his guests, all three elders for the district,
had a thousand things to ask the pastor. If the Governor of
the province could, by chance, have heard their conversation,
he would have been not a little surprised at the extent of the
field which their zeal had opened up despite of so many
edicts, decrees, and spies.

" You do not speak of your son," said Reboul. " Shall I die
Without seeing him again ? without having heard him preach?"

" I hope not. His studies will soon be over. You will
see him, please Gk)d, in spring."

218 FRANCE BEFORE THE REYOLUTIOK.

"A minister?"

"No; but about to be one. We shall ordain him in
France."

" A proud day for me, Keboull"

" And for the Church. Who will ordain him ?"

" Can you ask me?"

" I guessed. May God be witji him and you I "

They rejoiced, throughout the country, at the return of
Babaut's son, who was studying, as we have said, at the
Seminary at Lausanne. He had shared, while yet a child, the
fatigues and dangers of his father. Although he had been
absent for ten years, his precocious talents were remembered,
and they delighted to think of them as matured by age and
study.

When supper was over —

"You wish," said the minister, "that I should tell you
how things are going on at Toulouse ? "

" I beg your pardon," said Eeboul, interrupting him.
" We have only known matters imperfectly, and are not even
sure whether the little we do know is quite correct. Would
you be good enough to begin from the very beginning ?"

" Willingly ; I will go back, if you like, to the arrest of
the pastor Rochette. You knew him, did you not ?"

" Little personally ; but well by reputation."

" He deserved it. He was — I dare not now say, he is — ^he
was one of the most devoted and able men amongst us. He
had officiated in the first instance in the churches of the
Agenois, then in those of Quercy. Afterwards, at our last
Synod, on the 3d of June this year, we had decidedly allotted
to him the district of Montauban, and the surrounding coun-
try. It was at that assembly, where he acted as secretary,
that I saw him for the last time.

" Three months of his ministry had sufficed to give him a

FRIESTSy INFIDELS, ▲ND HUGUENOTS. 219

favourable and remarkable influence over this new field of
labour. He seemed to multiply himself in proportion to the
wants of his Church. He was everywhere ; he did every-
thing. I was informed, a few days before his imprisonment,
that he purposed holding twenty different meetings in the
course of a few weeks.

'* On his arrival at Caussade, on the 13th of September, he
was sent for from the country to baptize a child. His usual
guide, Viala, went to reconnoitre the neighbourhood, and
returned, towards midnight, with an inhabitant of the place.
They were met by a patrol of the city guards, became con-
fused, said that they were waiting for another person, and
that they were going to Montauban. The pastor, who was
coming to meet them, was questioned Hkewise, and answered,
which was true, that he was going to St. Antonin. This con*
tradiction appeared suspicious. All three were arrested.

"At Caussade he underwent a fresh interrogatory. He
might have told a falsehood, but would not save himself by
lying. He gave his name.

" The Mayor and Consuls were alarmed at their capture.
Two of them, formerly Protestants, wished to let him go
quietly ; the others, although Komanists, had no wish to give
him up to the Parliament. It was tacitly agreed that he
should be allowed to escape the following night. All at once
the report spread that the Protestants of the neighbourhood
were about to arrive in arms to deliver their pastor. The
alarm-bell sounded; they took arms in haste. Troops of
people paraded the streets; they went so far as to hoist the
white cross — ^the emblem which recalled the League and St.
Bartholomew. The alarm-bell was rung likewise for four or
five leagues round the country. The Komanists flocked in
from all sides ; they came to protect Caussade from the fiiry
of the Protestants.

220 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

** The Protestants, however, did not arrive. No one could
afiinn that so many as four had been seen together, still less
that a single one had been armed ; and it is a fact that there
has not been the slightest trace of this pretended invasion.
But, meanwhile, the Consuls had been forced to put their
prisoner in a place of safety. All Caussade guarded the
prison. Our friend was lost.

*' He was not to perish alone.

^' Horrible menaces had been pronounced against us. Some
Protestants had been attacked in their own houses ; others had
even been obliged to repel force by force. No blood had been
shed ; but a single blow would have sufficed to bring on a
massacre.

" Whilst the Protestants of Caussade were barricading them*
selves in their houses, the rumour reached Montauban that th^
were going to be murdered, that it had perhaps already taken
place. Three brothers, gentilskommes verriers* of the county
of Foix, happened to be in the town. They were informed
of the pastor's arrest, and of the exasperation of the Roman-
ists. They set out for Caussade, armed with their fowling-
pieces. What were they going to do there ? They did not
know ; but it is certain that three men alone, with no other
arms than their fowling-pieces, could have had no intention of
attacking a large village, full of soldiers ; and no one observed
that they made any attempt to procure companions on the
road. They were seen from a distance, attacked, and dis-
armed ; and now they are, as you know, at Toulouse, under
capital accusation. Their enemies say it was a case of
armed rebellion ; and the Parliament is quite ready to give
flentence accordingly."

* OentUihommes verriers. — ^The glass manufEtctorers had the privily of nobility in
Franco. .Their rank was inferior to the four other orders of nobility, namely. La no-
blesse dCeglise, d'ipde, de robe, et de elocher. — Tran$,

PBIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 221

' " But," said Keboul, " will not their Mends interfere ?
For, after all, they must have Mends. They certainly
have"—

" Many. Everything has been done. It is on their ac-
count that I have just been at Toulouse, where I had already
been two months ago. I have myself directed all the steps
taken ; I have spoken myself ; I have made others speak.
All is useless ; they will perish. As for the pastor, we must
not hope to obtain anything from his judges. The law is ex-
plicit ; if they even wished to save him, which is by no means
the case, they could not. At the very utmost, we may hope
for the gallows instead of the wheel for him.

" It was, therefore, necessary to apply to higher quarters.
The governor, the ministers, the king, have been harassed
with our petitions. I have written myself to the Duke de
Eichelieu, the Duke de Fitz- James — even to Madame
Adelaide, the king's eldest daughter. It is said that she has
once or twice manifested some pity for us. I have said every-
thing to her in favour of our unhappy Mend that I could
imagine most likely to touch her feelings, without offending
her piety, which is not the most enlightened ; no answer.
Has she even received my letter ? M. Court has not been
able to ascertain. Meanwhile, the trial is going on ; perhaps
the sentence is already drawn up."

" As yours would now be," interrupted Eeboul, " if you
had remained in their hands ; but we should have torn it to
pieces, or sacrificed our own lives."

" Eeboul, in Grod!s name, say no more of those projects."

" Yes, you are right ; let us say no more of them."

He sighed. The Christian acquiesced ; but the Camisard
continually revived.

'' It remains for me to relate the beginning of Calas's trial
to yon* In the other we have only iniquitous laws and inex-

FBAHCE BEF08B THE BSTOLDTIOS.

398

orable judgea against us ; in ihis, (

accmnijlated all the horrors and all the follies of fanaticiBtn. I

" You know the Calas family. It consists of the &thM
who is UDivefsally esteemed, au amiable and pious mother
and childien who have not all of them repaid their parenbi
care. The third son, Louis, bad bemme a Eomanist ; tin
eldest, Mark Antony, led a detestable life — idle, dissipated,
gloomy ; unable to derive pleaaure irom anything, eveD tb6
very profligacy in which he sought amusement. He wafiTi
intimate with Bruyn, who used to be called my Judas, 1
who has since so thoronghly obUterated the infamy of a
ment. As for the former, he was condemned to sink bat
error to error, down to the very bottom of the abyss
which he was to drag his father after him.

" It was tbe 13th of October ; I had been at Touiouse f
some days, quite occupied with Rochottc and the three
brothers Grenier. X had Been the Calas family during tbe
day ; the father had asked me to go and see his son, and
unite my efforts to his own to induce bim to change his courso
of life. I hod been taken to his room, and found in him a
man degraded by wine and debauchery ; deaf to exhortation
and entreaty, to the voice of rehgion as well as that of nature.
I had even left the house without seeing his father again, so
certain did it appear to me that there was no more hope.
Did the unhappy being understand me better than
would have led me to suppose ? Did I contribute, by b1
ing him the horrors of his condition, to his detormination 4
getting out of it by suicide? Perhaps. Everything r
turn to poison when the mind is poiaoned.

" In the evening, towards ten o'clock, passing by chance
through the same street, I beard cries. I ran to the spok;,|
but as several persons had aheady stopped before tbe doc
prudence obhged me to remain at some distance. Tou knO!|

>re nope.
s maniu^^l
by sho^^^l
nation 4^H
ling maT^^

FSIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 223

I am always like a scout in an enemy's country. The door
was half open ; the crowd drew back with alarm. Behind
that door, at the entrance of the office, a man was hanging.
I recognised Mark Antony. At the same instant I perceived
young Lavaysse, a friend of the family, getting up on a table
and cutting the cord, while some other persons received the
corpse in their arms. The watch arrived; the crowd was
pushed back. The family and some neighbours alone re-
mained in the office, trying, but in vain, to bring the young
man back to life.

^* Two of the capitouls* arrived at this conjuncture. Lisle
de Brive, and David de Baudrigue, the latter well known fot
his animosity against us. And yet they were there more than
a quarter of an hour before either of them dreamt of suspect-
ing assassination, or seeking for proofs of it. It was the same
with the crowd ; no one around me had as yet said a word
contrary to the universal opinion, that the wretched man had
hanged himself.

" The capitouls went away ; they had not even drawn up
a written statement of the facts. Suddenly a voice from the
midst of the crowd cried out that Galas was to have abjured
shortly, that he had died assassinated, and that the assassin
oould be none other than his father. One of the capitouls
shrugged his shoulders, and went away; the other, David,
stopped, then ran after him, brought him back, and thus in
an instant gave an alarming consistency to the rumour which
had just been spread. Immediately, without any further ex-
amination, and notwithstanding the representations of his col-
league, he had the whole family arrested, young Lavaysse and
a female servant included. They were taken to the H6tel de
Ville. The corpse was conveyed thither likewise, and, con-

* Oapiknii was-tbe name given to tbe head magistrate at Tooloiue.~2Van«.

224 JVANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION,

trary to all rules, then only was a written statement of the
facts drawn up.

" I had remained amongst the crowd ; I had watched, not
without alarm, the fearful progress of an opinion which at first
had only appeared to me absurd. Every instant fresh details
were given of the pretended conversion of Mark Antony, of
his intentions of abjuration, of his martyrdom — for that name
was abeady being given to his death. At the end of an hour
it would have been dangerous to seem to hold a di£ferent
opinion from that of the multitude.

" I went away, however, more distressed at this hereditary
^aticism than seriously uneasy as to the fate of the Galas
family. The inquiry into the case, thought I, however par-
tial we may fear it will be, cannot but soon establish their
innocence.

" I had reckoned without the clergy. It is the custom in
the Church of Eome that, in the case of serious crimes whose
authors are unknown, the members of that Church shall be
solemnly summoned, under pain of excommunication, to come
forward and depone whatever they may know or suspect on the
subject of the fact in question.

" This summons, which is generally accompanied by the
details calculated to facilitate research, is what is called a
monitory letter,

" One was sent out hastily. This document, which was
signed by the Vicar-general, departed so much from the
ordinary forms, that I could not help thinking at first, either
that it was not genuine, or that the contents had been £alsi*
fied. I knew the hatred of the priests ; but I had imagined
them more clever in concealing it. .

" It began by supposing, as admitted and incontestable,
that which had first of all to be proved, namely, that the
death of Calas was not by his own hand. This laid down,

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 225

without openly designating the father as the assassin, the
questions were arranged in such a manner that the answers
must necessarily bear upon him.

" Finally, as, according to the usual course of jurisprudence,
all articles presupposing the crime to have been committed,
and all information foreign to these articles ought not to be
included in the inquiry instituted, the door was closed against
evidence for acquittal.

" Soon, as if it were not enough to have raised up a barrier
beforehand between the truth and the judges, one would have
said that the latter desired to condemn themselves not to
admit it, if even it should force its way through this barrier,
and reach their consciences, as evident.

" The moratory letter had supposed it proved that Galas
died assassinated. The capitouls went a step further ; they
took upon them to affirm that Galas died a Komanist, or at
least on the point of becoming one. They ordered, conse-
quently, that the body should be temporarily interred in
holy ground^ and that in the churchyard of St. Etienne, the
Cathedral of Toulouse, for the greater solemnity.

" The priest made objections. The Gatholicity of the de-
ceased, he said, was anything but proved. Notwithstanding
the monitory letter^ no priest had as yet affirmed that Mark
Antony had made any overtures to him on the subject of
abjuration. In what a false position would they then find
themselves, if, after Gatholic obsequies, they should come to the
certainty that the deceased had died a Protestant ; if, above
all, after having paid all those honours to his remains that
the Church refuses to those who have committed suicide,
they should be forced to allow that he had died by his own
hand ? But that was precisely what their hatred had vowed
not to admit. These considerations were set aside, and it
was decided that the funeral should take place.

VOL. u. p

226 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

" The impulse had been given. Fifty priests, with tapers,
banners — ^in short, all the paraphernalia of solemn funerals,
came to take the body at the H6tel de Ville. An immense
crowd followed them. The body was presented at the church.
Holy water streamed on the coffin. The people could no
longer doubt — Galas had died a Catholic ; Galas had died
a martyr to his faith.

" The next day, masses began for the repose of his soul.
Churches, convents, confraternities, became animated with
holy emulation. The white penitents, amongst whom, it was
said, that Galas was to have enrolled himself immediately
after his abjuration, distinguished themselves particularly.
I was present at his abominable comedy, which was but the
too certain prelude of a fearful tragedy. Their church was
himg, not with black, but with white. Was it not to be
manifest to the eyes of all, that the day was a festival, and
that the deceased had entered heaven in triumph ? In the
middle, a magnificent tomb of state had been erected ; the
skeleton of a man was standing on the top of it. In his
right hand he held a palm, the symbol of martyrdom ; in the
other, a label, on which might be read in large letters —
Abjuration of heresy. All the convents, all the confraternities
of the town and neighbourhood, sent their deputies to this
gloomy spectacle. The whole country was on foot. The
populace, whose imagination had been powerfully excited,
prayed, wept, and expressed their indignation. Our poor
friend's sentence of death might be read upon all faces.

" And yet what had been the man of whom they were
thus endeavouring to make a martyr and almost a saint ?
The whole town was acquainted with his profligate character ;
every one had pitied his father. Had any improvement been
observed in his conduct of late ? No. Such as he had been
seen for years past, such he had remained till his death. The

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 227

neighbours could attest it. The evening before his death
had been spent at a gambling-house ; he had returned home
as usual, taciturn, and with an unsteady step. Thus, not
merely was there no proof that he had thought of becoming
a Komanist, but this design, supposing it to be true, had been
accompanied by no change in his conduct. He had lived a
libertine, and he died a libertine.

" But hatred does not investigate so closely ; besides, the
Church of Eome has never been very scrupulous in the choice
of her heroes. The conduct matters little, provided there is
faith, or the semblance of it. What Galas had been, mattered
very little, provided his death furnished an opportunity for
exciting the fanaticism of the populace, ruining some Hugue-
nots, and reviving, in short, some of those calumnies which
have pursued us for two hundred years past. Not satisfied
with accusing us of parricide, our enemies insist that a secret
law exists amongst us, by which parents are obliged to put
to death those of their children who wish to go over to
Romanism. Where have our adversaries seen, I do not
say this law — since they pretend that we keep it secret — but
the actions which might appear to be the result of it ? The
converters have torn from us enough of children, enough of
young men, and how many of them have been seen assas-
sinated up to the present time ? If even it could be proved
that Mark Antony had died by the hands of his parents, it
would be but a solitary crime ; neither we nor our Church
ought to be responsible for it. Nevertheless, there will soon
not be a Romanist at Toulouse, but will speak of this san-
guinary law which has been imputed to us, and believe in
it as if he had read it, as if he had heard us preach it. I
have been obliged to take up the pen, in order to try and
destroy, in the minds of some at least, these odious prejudices.
A pamphlet that I have just finished, is being secretly printed

228 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

at Toulouse. Will it produce any good effect ? I do not
dare to hope for much. Some are too blind to be enlightened ;
others have gone too far to draw back.

"We have, however, a moment of hope. The capitonls
having ordered, on the 18th of November, that Galas, his
wife, and his son Peter, should be put to the torture, the
accused appealed from their judgment, and the Parliament, on
the dth of December, annulled the sentence of the capitouls ;
at the same time removing the cause to its own tribunal, and
ordering the affair to be remanded for further inquiry.

" We began to breathe, but it was only for a short time.
The legal proceedings, which had been carried on with such
partial information and so incorrectly, were maintained ; and
shortly after, a fresh publication of the monitory letter was
ordered. Thus, the work of the capitouls is continued by
the Parliament. The grounds of accusation are equally false,
the mode of proceeding equally irregular, the bitterness of
pursuit the same against the accused and ourselves, but
accompanied by more strict formalities.

" We have, it is true, more friends than might be supposed,
but the greater number dare not come forward. That which
is only seen in general in times of revolution, is now taking
place at Toulouse : the violent, the populace, dictate public
opinion. Those who on other occasions have been seen most
inclined to despise the decisions of the mob, are now those
who seem most disposed to think that the voice of the people
is the voice of God. * You are all for Galas,' said one of our
enemies to Gouncillor de la Salle, the only one who has not
followed the stream. * And you all for the people,' answered
M. de la Salle.

" Such, my friends, is the state of things. The Galas family
is in strict confinement ; all communication with them is im-
possible. Receiving no advice, being ignorant of all that the

PRIESTS, INFTOELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 229

judges think proper to conceal from them, they fall into some
fresh snare at each examination. Harassed with questions
on insignificant points, which none of them had thought of
impressing on their memory, they are not always strictly
agreed ; and these contradictions, collected together and mag-
nified, go to increase the amount of facts beneath which it is
purposed to crush them.

" I have no more hope ; but I shall contend to the very last.
If their blood must flow, at least I am determined that it shall
not flow in vain. Who knows, if in the designs of Grod, their
death may not be one of the conditions of our deliverance ?"

230 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

CHAPTEE XI.

It was nearly midnight, and Eabaut was to set out again
before daybreak. The two friends took their leave. The
pastor went up to his room.

This room, situated on the first story, had but one window
looking out upon a little garden. It was furnished, besides,
with every means of escape that the premises would admit of.
At the window, there was a rope ladder always rolled up be-
hind the inside shutter. In a wardrobe, there was a secret
door leading either to the cellar or the attics, according as the
fugitive might wish to go up or down. Finally, behind the
bed, in case the house should be at once surrounded and
invaded, there was a last refuge. It was a long, low hiding-
place, the entrance to which was on a level with the floor of
the room, and skilfully concealed in one of the panels of the
basement. There, lying down in the wall, and breathing
through a crevice, the person concealed, might defy the
search of his enemies for a day or two.

Rabaut was occupied, before going to bed, in noting down
his itinerary of the day following. He had a multitude of
people to see, and affairs to settle ; and as he was very anxi-
ous to return to Toulouse as soon as possible, he wished to
manage so as not to lose one step or one moment.

It was cold. The solitary house, the uninhabited room,
the oppressive silence of night, all concurred to add, to the chill

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 231

which takes possession of the frame, that other chill which
takes possession of the mind.

Kabaut had finished, and yet he did not rise from his chair.
He experienced that vague fear which keeps us and nails us
down to our seat, as if afraid of the noise we should make by
moving. He listened, without stirring, to the sighs of the
wind, the rustling of the dry leaves that were blown about by
it in the garden, and to the old clock which he heard beneath
him in the kitchen ; the regular ticking of which contrasted
strangely with the disorderly sounds from without.

It seemed to him as if, for a few minutes past, he had heard
something which was neither the sound of the wind nor that
of the leaves. This noise, which came from the garden, had
continued between two gusts of wind, but had then suddenly
ceased, as if it had perceived that it was about to betray itself,
and must wait for a fresh irruption of the gale.

Twelve o'clock struck, and immediately, as if on a given
signal that had been expected, the noise seemed no longer to
conceal itself. There could be no doubt left. There were
footsteps and voices. Kabaut ran to the window. He fixed
his eye at a small opening made in the shutter ; but he saw
nothing. The night was dark. Scarcely could the tops of
some trees be perceived, whose leafless branches were traced
out against the dark sky. But the footsteps and voices drew
nearer. At the same moment, a violent knocking was heard
at the street door ; that of the room was half opened. It was
Reboul. " Flee or hide yourself," said he, and went down
hastily. But Rabaut had no choice left. The garden was
now lighted up ; soldiers and armed peasants were distinctly
seen. To flee was impossible ; but it was important to let it
be supposed that he had fled. He opened the door of the
secret staircase, left it open, and shut himself into the hiding-
place. From thence he could only hear a confused sound.

232 FRANCE BEFORE THE REYOLUTION.

He felt by the shaking of the walls that the door had been
broken in. Then there was a tumult within the house. The
staircase trembled beneath heavy footsteps ; the butt-ends of
muskets were heard upon the floors. At last the door of the
room opened noisily. Several persons rushed in at once.

" Here it is I — Come in !" cried a voice.

Eabaut now knew that voice. It was the voice at Aigues-
Mortes, the voice of Father Ghamay.

After having been repulsed at Toulon, Charnay had returned
quite farious to Pont-de-Montvert, his head-quarters, as In-
spector of missions in the country. He had heard, but only
the same evening, of the meeting that was to take place at
Reboul's. Not being able to assemble immediately, and with-
out noise, a force sufficient to seize forty men, he had resolved
to wait till at least one-half had gone out. But, while this
was going on, he learned that a man on horseback had just
been seen near the village ; that the same man had been met
shortly afterwards going through the street on foot and enter-
ing Kebours house. There could no longer be a doubt : it
was a pastor.

Charnay instantly changed his plans. In the assemblies of
the Protestants, he knew that the rule always was to let the
pastor escape. He therefore decided on leaving the meeting
in peace, for, even were it reduced to a few men, they would
perhaps still find means to conceal or tear from him his prey.
Thus he would let all escape, provided the pastor was taken.

It had been remarked, that he alone wore a cloak. In
spite of the darkness of the night, he might therefore be re-
cognised, followed, and seized on going out. Two men,
crouched down in the dark a few steps from the door, had
waited for him in vain ; whence they concluded, which from
the first had appeared probable, that he would pass the night
in the house.

PBIE8TS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 233

About eleven o'clock, some of Chamay's agents had one by
one slipped into the garden ; others, stationed in the street,
were ready to draw near at the first signal. Chamay had,
however, decided that they should wait till midnight. The
pastor would be in bed, thought he, and they would have a
more easy prey.

"Here we are I" cried he, therefore, as he rushed into the
room, where a bed, a chair before the table, and a lamp
burning, showed that he had reached the object of his search.
But his foot was still on the threshold when he stopped,
breathless and confounded.

" No one here I no one I"

Then immediately, perceiving the back staircase — " Very
good," resumed he, " we have it. He certainly cannot have
gone out ; either he is above, or below."

Some of the men went up the staircase, others, the abbe at
their head, went down. Soon after, they had all returned.
There was nothing to be seen in the attics ; nothing in the
cellar either, except a door which led to the garden, and of
which they remarked that the bolt was drawn. But the sen-
tinels without had had their eyes on that door ; they said it
had not been opened.

It was Keboul himself who, on the first alarm, had found
time to go and draw this bolt, in order to let it be believed
that Eabaut had escaped that way. The artifice had suc-
ceeded. Notwithstanding the denial of the sentinels, they
began to believe in his escape.

Chamay had sat down, in a state of terrible agitation, on
J. the chair where Rabaut had so recently been seated writing
his notes. His fist clenched, his arm stretched over the table,
his eyes fixed upon the wall, he scarcely listened to the re-
ports made to him. Of what consequence were the details ?
the conclusion remained the same. He had missed his object ;

f

234 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

he bad but to gnaw the bridle that God had once more put
upon the risings of his hatred. From time to time he threw
off his stupor, and his eyes kindled with gloomy hope.

" Have they gone up to the roof?"

" Yes, Father."

He once more became motionless.

"Have they searched everywhere?"

" Yes, Father."

There was silence again.

" Have the walls been sounded ?"

" Yes, Father."

"Everywhere?"

" Everywhere — oh I not in this room."

To rise, seize a stick, and strike hard rapid blows wherever
he could reach, was the work of a moment with him. But
the walls kept their secret. He had struck too high ; for the
hiding-place was, we may remember, on a level with the floor.
Besides, the panel which formed the door of it was so placed
as not to give a more hollow sound than the adjoining ones
on being struck.

The Jesuit sat down again. " I feel cold," said he. " Let
a fire be lighted."

" Here ?" said one of his people.

"Here— Hal"

A new idea had struck him. What if the fugitive should
perchance be in the chimney ? It was by the chimney that
the pastor Lafage, in the environs of Monoblet, in 1754, had
tried to escape. As he came out upon the roof, a ball had
broken his arm. Three days after, he was hanged at Mont-
pellier. Charnay hastened to despatch two men out upon the
roof ; he himself arranged the wood ; he himself lighted the
fire. But the men returned alone ; nothing had come out of
the chimney — but smoke.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 235

All at once he remembered Reboul. Though he had missed
the pastor, he had another victim. According to the tenor of
the edicts, Reboul must go to the galleys, and his house be
levelled with the ground. This was what had happened to
the Protestant Novis, in 1754, for having given an asylum to
Lafage.

" Bring him to me," said Charnay ; " perhaps we may get
something out of him."

He did not hope it, for the old man's firmness was well
known ; he intended to try. Some carnivorous animals de-
light in playing with their victims.

"Well," said he to Reboul, " so he has escaped?"

" I have already thanked God for it, sir."

" You will thank Him for it at the galleys ; do not forget,
you will have time enough."

"You think, then, that I shall remain there long, sir?"

" For life, indeed ! You do not, then, know the law ? "

" Yes, 1 do ; but it reaches me rather late in the day. I
am eighty- three, sir. For life, at my age" —

"Your property is confiscated."

" What should I do with it ? I am going to the galleys,
and my heirs are there already."

" Your house will be pulled down."

" * If our earthly house of this tabernacle he dissolved, we
have in the heavens^ " —

" Be silent."

" Do you mean to silence St. Paul ?"

" Be silent. Where is he ? "

"Who?"

" The minister."

" If I knew, you may be sure I would not tell."

" And you do not know ?"

" I do not."

236 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

He said this the more confidently, that he did not indeed
know whether Kabaut was hid, or had succeeded in escapmg.

" But, in short," said Chamay, in a tone evidently more
gentle, " could you not give us some hint ? We would will-
ingly forget, on our part, that it was at your house."

" Yes ; but I should never forget that I had committed an
infamous action. Do you not think that would be quite as
bad as your galleys?"

" You wish, then, to go there?"

" I desire to die as I have lived, whether here or at Toulon.
And yet, you are right, I do wish to go there. I shall not
feel it hard to be there — ^first, because it will be on account of
my faith, and next, for M. Rabaut's sake."

" For whom?" cried Chamay.

But he had only heard too well. His eyes started out of
his head ; he threw himself upon Keboul, and shook his arm
convulsively.

" Rabaut I " he cried. " Was it Rabaut ?"

" Yes, it was," said the Cevenol quietly. " Did you not
know it?"

In fact, Chamay had no suspicion of it. He imagined that
Rabaut was at Toulon, or the neighbourhood ; nothing could
have led him to suppose that he had followed him so closely
in the Cevennes. Only too glad to lay hold of a pastor, he
had never thought of inquiring the name of the one who had
just escaped from him. If, however, Reboul had imagined he
did not know it, he would have taken care not to tell him.

His fury was beyond all bounds. He reproached himself
aloud for having taken his measures so ill. He sent for his
soldiers, for the peasants ; he asked them for fresh details, in
a terrible voice, and did not listen to them. He wished to go
up again into the loft, down again into the cellar, to search
every comer himself.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 237

Amidst all this violence, he had once more forgotten the
aged Reboul. The latter had remained in the room, guarded
by two soldiers, who did not dare to speak to Chamay to ask
for orders. They conversed, meanwhile, with their prisoner.
These men seemed but little pleased with the part they were
called upon to act in the country. They thought that French
soldiers might have had something better to do at that time
than to help the purveyors for the scaffold. On the whole,
they would have preferred serving under Marshal Soubise,
beaten and turned into ridicule as he was, to conquering
under a Jesuit, and taking prisoners of eighty-three.

" And you do not know where he is ? " repeated the priest
suddenly, as he came back and planted himself before him.

" I do not know," said Reboul.

" Ah I you do not know, indeed. You will not speak ?
Wait a little ; we have opened the mouths of more obstinate
people than you."

" Of cowards."

" For the last time — ^Will you or will you not?"

Reboul only shrugged his shoulders.

In the twinkling of an eye, Chamay bound him to the
chair with the rope of the ladder. Then, tearing off his shoes
and stockings, he dragged him to the fire.

The soldiers did not conceal their horror. Chamay made
the tongs red-hot. M. Machault had done the same, we may
remember, to force revelations from Damiens. Reboul had
turned pale. He was heard praying in a low voice.

"You are praying, I think?" said Chamay, as he arranged
the fire.

" The Abbe Chayla prayed too."

"When?"

" When we put him to death. Abbe Chamay, for having
done to some of our people what you intend doing to me."

238 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOHJTION.

" Do you think, perhaps, to intimidate me ?"

" It would be easy enough, 1 think ; you are abeady quite
agitated."

"I?"

•* But be calm ; we do not assassinate now. When venge-
ance is sure, why should we hasten it?"

" Vengeance I what vengeance ?"

" Do you believe in God, sir?"

"Be silent, wretched man."

" Well, do not ask upon whom we rely. Your tongs are
red-hot, abbe."

Chamay took them.

Meanwhile, Rabaut heard and saw all this. By the same
opening which enabled him to breathe, he saw, from under
the bed, the fire, and Chamay bending down before it, and
the bare feet of the unfortunate Cevenol. His resolution was
taken. He would not allow the sacrifice to be accomplished.
At the first cry, the first groan of the victim, he would cry
out to the executioner to stop, and give himself up to
him.

But the executioner hesitated. Several times he had taken
the tongs, and several times, as if not finding them hot enough,
he had put them back into the fire. The tone of his voice,
which became more and more threatening, but ill dissembled
his embarrassment. He was evidently struggling against
some feeling. Was it pity ? Perhaps, for — we are bound to
say so — it was the first time that he was about to inflict tor-
ture with his own hand ; but it was also, and still more, at
the thought of the danger that he risked bringing down upon
bis own head. On one hand, the remembrance of Chayla ;
on the other, the limits of his powers as Inspector, which
did not by any means comprehend that of inflicting torture,
still less that of inflicting it with his own hand. The gentle-

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 239

men of the Parliament had always shown themselves very
jealous of this right; and it was not the moment for the
Jesuits to quarrel with them on account of an unnecessary
usurpation.

Kabaut, one hand on the bolt, the other on his bosom, as
if to stifle the noise of the throbbings of his heart — Rabaut,
we say, did not lose sight of him. His strength and courage
were exhausted by this cruel suspense. He was accustomed
to expose his life; but to see it, hanging as it were by a
thread, and a thread that he must cut as soon as a furious
man should please to tighten it, was more than he could l)ear.
He felt sulBfocated. He was obliged to exercise the greatest
self-command, not to burst open his hiding-place, if only to
breathe freely.

Suddenly there was a great noise. Reboul, silent and
motionless, had triumphed. Charnay had not ventured to go
beyond threats ; he had risen and thrown aside the instrument
of punislmient, as if to punish it for its impotency. He then
rushed to the door, and his step was heard on the stairs, un-
steady from rage.

Some minutes after, his people carried off the Cevenol.

Some days after, his workmen threw down the house. They
found the hiding-place ; it was empty. And while the house
was being demolished, the proprietor arrived at the galleys,
where his two grandsons awaited him.

While the galleys were receiving fresh guests, and death
was hovering over the prisonei'S at Toulouse, the cause of tole-
ration was nevertheless making great and singular progress
in certain circles.

Singular, indeed ; for nowhere was the levity of the times
more strangely exhibited.

It had become the fashion to pity the Protestants ; but no
one thought of putting an end to their sufferings — ^no one, at

240 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

least, amongst those who held in their hands the power of
relieving them.

There are people who write in the most touching manner
upon benevolence, and yet are far from being benevolent. Is
it hypocrisy? Sometimes ; but most frequently it is thought-
lessness. Speak to them of poverty ; they are all tears and
heart. Speak to them of the poor, and for the poor; they
will look quite surprised that there are any. This was the
case, a hundred years ago, as regarded the intrepid remnant
of French Protestantism. The more their misfortunes formed
a contrast to the refinements of the day, the more people
allowed themselves to be affected by them as by a tale of
other times. Their martyrs were pitied, but as those of the
first centuries, or, at the very utmost, as those of China or
Japan. Sometimes even, as we have had an example ftirther
back in our narrative, people really were in error as to the
period of their sufferings. The author of the HonnSte Crimi-
nel had imagined he was bringing upon the stage a fact al-
ready remote. He believed that his hero must have been dead
at least twenty or thirty years. Marmontel, from whom he
had had the story, and who suggested to him the idea of
making it a subject for the theatre — Marmontel himself held
the same opinion.

This piece, however, which we have seen that the hero
himself considered not to be above mediocrity, had some suc-
cess at Paris. It was, take it altogether, one of the best spe-
cimens of that mongrel style which Diderot had brought into
fashion, and which has been well characterized by the term
drame bourgeois ; a false style, if ever there was one, because
it had retained the stiffoess of the classical play, although the
heroes were chosen in lower life, where the pompousness of
the old style had nothing to excuse it. Add to this, exaggera-
tion in the sentiments, bombast in the style, and we have

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 241

what a period of decline was simple enough to consider as an
improvement upon the noble faults of Racine's theatre.

The Honnite Criminel was the piece in fashion. It was not,
however, acted in public, it only appeared on the stage in
1768. Had the Grovemment prevented it? We have not been
able to ascertain. Be this as it may, the impression produced
was only the more general. People who would have been
satisfied with going to see it acted, read it over and over
again ; and, in short, every one wished to know the speeches
in it by heart. They were tolerant with the HonnHe Criminel^
just as they were pious with the Petit Carime^ or admired the
country, with St. Lambert, at the fireside, or shepherds with
Boucher and Watteau, astronomy with M. de Fontenelle,
ancient Rome with M. de Florian, animals with M. de
Bufifon, nature and truth, in short, with whoever excelled in
spoiling them both.

From Paris, the piece had passed to Versailles, for it was
Paris now that gave the tone to Versailles. Ladies had it
on their toilet-tables, dandy Marquises in their pockets. It
was soon to reach the king.

Nothing had been changed for a year past in the king's
private life. He became every day more difficult to amuse ;
and every day the favourite bestowed more art and more
pains upon the task. She had often enough sung the Devin
de Village to him ; she took up the idea of acting the Honnete
CrimineL

These private theatricals, known under the name of Spec-
tacles des petits cabinets du roi, dated from 1747, the third
year of Madame de Pompadour's reign. She had shone at
Etioles, upon the little theatre of her uncle, M. de Toume-
hem ; she wished to have an opportunity of obtaining the
same success under the eyes of the king. She soon formed
her troop, for it was thought amusing to take and keep that

VOL. u. Q

242 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

name. The first who composed it, were the Duke de Chaxtres,
the Dukes of Ayen, Nivemais, Duras, Coigny, the Count de
Maillebois, the Marquises of Courtenvaux and d'Entraigues.
They were less rich in actresses. There were only, besides
the Marchioness, the Duchess de Brancas, the Countess
d'Estrades, and the Countess de Marchais. Of singers, only
three ; Madame de Pompadour, Madame de Brancas, and the
Duke d'Ayen. At first, therefore, they selected in the way
of operas, acts suited to three persons, such as Bacchus and
Erigone, Ismene, Egle, &c. Finally, the manager was the
Duke de la Valliere, and the prompter, the Abb6 de la Garde,
librarian and secretary of Madame de Pompadour.

They began with Voltaire's Enfant Prodi ffue^ but so secretly
that the author himself did not know, for four or five dajns, how
the piece had been received. He had little need to be uneasy
about it. The Marchioness had chosen it ; the Marchioness
acted it. Louis XV. was enchanted. He even decided, on
this occasion, that the actors might be applauded in his pre-
sence, which had been up to that time forbidden, as well in
private as in public. It was the first privilege conferred on
these private theatricals, and the privilege, according to the
ideas of the Court, was immense.

The number of spectators, originally limited to five or six,
was never considerable ; several years, indeed, elapsed before
ladies were admitted. Their presence would have brought
back etiquette, which the king wished, above all things, to
banish fix)m these parties ; the king alone had a stated and
distinguished seat, and therefore there could be no distinction
of rank as to the places of others.

But if this simplicity was kept up, more or less, on the side
of the spectators, it was not the same on the side of the actors.
In 1750, we find them set up on a magnificent scale as re-
garded musicians and dancers. The corps de ballet comprised

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 243

fls many as twenty persons, some belonging to the Court —
amongst them the Marquis de Gourtenvaux, first dancer — and
the rest, professional dancers from the opera. Twenty male
and female singers had been likewise recruited there. The
orchestra, finally, was composed of thirty musicians, one-third
of whom were amateurs, and twenty professional persons, all
the most distinguished.

This continued for some years. The king, although at last
the Court had been admitted to the entertainment, still fancied
himself quite in a private circle, like Louis XIV., who, amidst
all the magnificence of Marly, had considered himself to the
very last as in a very plain chateau, where he came to rest
after the grandeur of Versailles.

All at once, Louis XV. became aware that he was quite as
enrmyi there as elsewhere ; he concluded, thence, that private
theatricals only differed in name from the former grand repre-
sentations of the Court.

Then, all that had gradually been added to their original
plan was set aside. The troop became once more what it had
been at first ; some names were added, others taken off the list,
till there were, at last, just enough left to recite the Honnite
Criminel.

The king had heard the piece q)oken of — of course not the
hero, for he was even less disposed to trouble himself with
what had become of him than any one else. He had con-
sented that it should be acted at Bellevue, in one of those
evening parties, where he liked to see his Court reduced to
seven or eight persons, only occupied with him, only amus-
ing themselves to amuse him, only laughing, conversing, or
eating, to induce him to converse, eat, or laugh.

The piece was admirably adapted to be acted in private.
There were not more than six characters; one scene only,
representing the sea, with a house on the right and left, in

244 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

order to allow of the actors coming in and out ; very little or
no action, but soliloquies without end, abundance of sentiment,
all that could best flatter the vanity of the actors, by offering
to each in succession the opportunity of distinguishing him-
self. It is true, that had it been quite otherwise, volunteers
would not have been wanting. It was a great thing at Court
to appear on this little theatre, by the side of the Marchioness,
before the king. The most insignificant part was coveted as
the highest mark of favour. " I had, on one occasion," says
Madame du Hausset, in her Memoirs, " to solicit an appoint-
ment for one of my relations ; but Madame de Pompadoiir did
not like asking for anything from M. d^Argenson. Urged by
my family, who could not conceive it diJBficult for me, in the
situation* I occupied, to obtain a small appointment for a
good officer, I made up my mind to wait upon the minister.
He received me rather coolly. As I was going out, the

Marquis de V , who had heard my request, followed me.

' You wish for an appointment,' said he. ' There is one
vacant, which is promised me for one of my protSgSs. Will
you make an exchange of favours ? I will give it up to you.
I wish to be the sergeant' — and, seeing I did not understand
the jest — ' This is the case,' resumed he ; * Tartuffe is going
to be acted, and there is, as you know, the part of a police
officer. Get this part for me, and the appointment you wish
shall be yours.' The thing was done. I had my appoint-
ment ; and the Marquis thanked Madame as if she had made
him a Duke."

Thus, both Dukes and Marquises were quite delighted to
be called Champagne or Frontin at Bellevue. Frontin was
the classical name ; and therefore Fenouillet de Falbaire,
author of the Honnite Criminel, had not failed to give it to
one of his valets. The said valet had only to recite eleven

* Madame du Hausset was waitiog-woznan to Madame de Pompadour.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 245

lines ; another, only two ; a third had only to rush upon the
stage to support a lady in a fainting fit. But the fainting
lady was the Marchioness, and who would have ventured not
to covet the honour of receiving her in his arms I

But it would have appeared to her too simple to choose only
among the people who offered themselves. It was very little
only to be amused by the piece, which was, besides, not very
amusing ; she must be amused by the actors themselves, or
at least by some of them. This was a way of making those
whom she could not reach otherwise, feel her power.

The Marquis de Namiers had returned to Versailles. The
change that had taken place in his character and ideas had
not escaped Madame de Pompadour, before his departure for
the south. Without being by any means a religious, or even
a serious man, he was no longer the young harebrained man
who had been seen devoting himself, body and soul, to the
worship of Court favour.

The bishop could not understand his nephew^s indifference
for what had hitherto been all in all to him ; he saw in the
change one more folly to be added to so many others. " You
are quite ruining yourself," he said to him, when he observed
that he was weeks without attending either the toilet of
Madame de Pompadour or her circle.

" Well, good day. Marquis," said she, the first time that
he appeared after his return. " You have not been seen for
a long time."

" I was in the south. Madam. I had to visit my regiment,
and attend to various matters of business at Aigues-Mortes,
where I have the honoiu* of commanding for the king."

" Very good ; but I think you returned several days ago."

" Three or four days. Madam."

" And have not been seen till to-day?"

" Business — a visit to my uncle" —

246 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

" Oh I I ask no questions. Yes, by the way, one : will you
do me a little service ?"

"Madam"—

" You know, or perhaps you do not know, that we are to
act a new piece one of these days before the king — VHonnite
CrimineL"

" Before the king I"

" Before the king. You, who are becoming, they say, snch
a good friend of the Protestants" —

"Madam"—

" It is, as you see, a good action, and you will be glad to
join in it. All the parts, unfortunately, are distributed. M.
de Marigny is Andre ; his Grace the Duke of Orleans is the
Count ; the Marquis d'Entraigues is M. d'Olban ; the Duke
de Eichelieu is Lisimon, the father of Andr6."

" No, Madam, no indeed I " cried the Duke, who was talk-
ing a little way off.

"We are not speaking to you," said the Marchioness,
laughing.

" No f but I hear."

" You have promised."

" Not at all. I — a part I I — ^verses I "

" A great matter, a hundred lines I "

" A hundred and fifty at least."

" Have you counted them ? — Very good : that is a sign
that you are thinking of learning them."

" No, indeed."

" To return to the subject, M. de Namiers. There remain
three valets ; two are already taken, you shall be the third, if
you please."

M. de Namiers bowed.

" This evening," resumed she, " we rehearse."

" This evening ? But how — ^my part ?"

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 247

"You are mute, my dear Marquis !*'

"Indeed I— mute?"

" Mute. The burden, you see, is not a heavy one."

" How do you know that, sister ?" said Marigny.

"But"—

" Mute I on the contrary, it is very hard — a woman should
know that."

" Naughty man I"

The Marquis oould but bow a second time. He was defi-
nitively enrolled into the Bellevue troop. He had nothing
left but to order a smart footman's suit.

Nevertheless, amidst these fiitile engagements, the Court
was not gay. The choice of a pathetic piece — instead of the
absurd plays usually got up at Bellevue — was, perhaps, in
itself^ without the Marchioness being aware of it, the result
of the gravity of circumstances. They were, indeed, very
serious.

" If you want news of our armies," Voltaire had written, in
February,* " the regiment of Champagne has fought like a
lion, and been beaten like a dog. If you want news of our
navy, our ships are being taken every day. If you prefer
news of our finances, we have not a sou."

In December, it was still worse. Winter had suspended
the war ; but the year following threatened to be harder and
more ruinous than any preceding one. The Facte defamille,
of which we have already said a few words, had excited the
greatest irritation in England. " Spain must immediately bear
the penalty of its alliance with France," said the English ;
and British avidity had already calculated how much might be
taken from it in ships, treasure, and colonies. Pitt, who was
the organ of all this hatred and these hopes, had asked for
war ; but he was the only member of the cabinet who wished

* Letter to M. d'AigeDoe de Dine Februaxy 24« 1761.

24& PRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

for it immediately. He had retired. His resignation, which
was given in with great parade, had only served to urge on
public opinion. His successor, Lord Bute, who fonnerly de-
sired peace, not only with Spain, but even with France — ^Lord
Bute, the leader of the Tories, had yielded to the influence by
which all were carried away. Spain was to be attacked, and
France, in virtue of the Facte de famille, was obliged to
defend her.

Tlius, at the same moment that the regiments which had
served in Germany were slowly returning, discouraged aad
reduced in numbers, to refit in their exhausted country, it was
necessary to think, for the next year, of the south as well as
the north, of sea as well as land, and that without any of those
warlike illusions which give strength to the weak, and courage
even to cowards. Spain must be assisted by those who felt they
had brought her troubles upon her, and would not be able to
save her. It was necessary to fight, in a word, with the
certainty that, with both success and bravery, no decisive
advantage would be obtained. Although the last campaign
had not been without glory, not only had the question not
advanced a single step, but there was even less progress
visible than at the beginning of the year. The blood of the
nobility had been shed in abundance ; families in mourning
asked themselves what had been gained by it. They raised
their eyes towards the throne — ^pensions descended thenccj
but nothing more. There was no enthusiasm for France to
be expected from the king, no real interest in those who fell
on the field of honour, none of those words that go to the
hearts of brave men, with which the Bearnais rewarded his
followers.

Two parties divided the Court. Marshals de Soubise and
do Broglie had returned from Germany, accusing each other
for the reverses of the army. Both had committed faults;

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 249

both were guilty of that fault which is the greatest and most
inexcusable, — they had been defeated. Both might have
been, perhaps ought to have been, disgraced ; but if there was
a choice to be made, Soubise was incontestably the first to be
sacrificed. It was he who, at Fillinghausen, had been the
cause of the loss of the battle by neglecting to occupy certain
defiles, and leaving his colleague to fight alone for three
hours ; it was he who, although personally brave, being quite
incapable of conceiving, and yet more of executing, an exten-
sive plan of warfare, had continually deranged those of Mar-
shal de Broglie, even when he did not wilfully thwart them.
What a French army then was, can only be seen in the
memoirs of the times.* Except personal courage, which was
not even very general amongst the common soldiers,, there
was scarcely anything left of all that constitutes a powerful
army, able to do great things. When the moment of fighting
came, they fought well; but till then, there was not the
slightest wish to engage. Months, whole seasons were passed
in marches and counter-marches. These were Turenne's
tactics, but without his genius : it was the art of war arrived,
like all the arts, by dint of refinement, at a state of complete
sterility. It needed a complete regeneration, and Marshal
Soubise was not by any means the man to accomplish it.

But he was Madame de Pompadour's friend ; he had been
appointed, supported, even directed by her. Had she not
often sent him plans for the campaign, drawn up by herself —
maps, on which she marked down with black patches the
towns to be taken, and places to be fortified ? Therefore, it
was not he who was mistaken, but fortune. His rival, con-
sequently, had just been deprived of his command, and exiled.

This was quite sufiicient to cause the displeasure of the
public — ^hitherto nearly divided between the two — to fall

* Those, in particular, of the Count de BesenYaL

250 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTIOK.

with all its weight upon the Marchioness's fiiYoiirite. Mar-
shal de Broglie, who had heen forgiven as soon as he was
sent into exile, became in a few days a great captain and a
hero. The two lines of Voltaire's Tancred —

*' On d^pooflle Tancrdde, on rezDe, on rontr^e ;
Cest le Mtt d\m h^ros d'6(re pen6cat6 * —

were eagerly applauded. His successor, whoever he might
be, was condemned already. Public malice deprived the
army beforehand of whatever confidence and enthusiasm it
might have recovered in spring.

Even at Court, where none could think of contending
against the all-powerfiil influence of the Marchioness, Marshid
de Broglie had more friends after his fall than he ever had
before. Madame de Pompadour could not but be aware, that
if he owed some of them to his own merit, he owed the far
greater number to a wish to mortify her, and to the very dis-
tinctions which she so largely bestowed on his rival. She
asked herself^ therefore, not without some alarm, whether she
had not united her interests too closely to those of an unfor-
tunate general, whose past misfortunes were abeady laid to
her account, and whose future misfortunes might involve her
in the same ruin with himself.

" Kind Marchioness, you try in Tidn,
From Soubise' brow to wash the stain ;
In vain your fEtvours he may share,
Defeat has mark'd it deeply there.
Though Pompadour would wash him white^
With an her credit, pains, and might,
Twill still be said at Court, in town —
Tis Frederick's iron lays him down."

Thus did the courtiers rhyme, and both Court and town
sang the same song. And the time was past when it might
be said : " Let them sing, provided they pay." No ; popular
songs at that period were but the weapons of the advanced
guard. A whole army was behind, whose banner was the

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 251

Encyclopsedia, destruction its word of command, the future its
field of battle. France had been called in days gone by " an
absolute monarchy, tempered by popular songs;" but the
country, without being aware of it, had passed under the
absolutism of ideas, which made popular songs themselves
some of its most powerful instruments.

It was thus that every question of the present or the fiiture
diminished or increased in importance, according as indivi-
duals were attacked in institutions, or institutions in indivi-
duals. A mighty movement ended in a couplet ; a couplet
contained in it the genu of a mighty movement.

2J^ nLk%Ch fSCWt^U, THE KETOUmOS.

CHAPTER XII.

TffK Duke de Bichelien, unable to withstand the caprices
<jf the Marchioness, had begun to study his part He still
h(i[H'A not to act it ; but as for refusing formally, he could not
ventur(5.

Jk'MJdes his reluctance to figure, at his age, in an exhibition
of this kind, he dreaded, not without reason, the treachery of
liiM in(iinory, and his entire incapacity as regarded verse.
T\m nilcH of prosody were to him like those of orthography ;
h(! ha<l never been able to remember them, and had never
felt ihnm, — in our days, we should say he had not that organ.

\U^ luwl no other way of distinguishing false quantities but
by Hcaiming verses on liis fingers. If listening or reciting, a
foot more or loss wns all the same to him. From this cause,
(^V(Mi wlion speaking perfectly well, his distrust of himself
was 80 complete, ns to set him wrong at every turn. Few
nuMi ill conversation could express themselves with more
fuoility, but tliis very facility was a snare in verse. He per-
petually changed the words, and the words he substituted
novi»r failed to be either too long or too short.

Ho liud spoken to the king of the difficulty in which he
wns prt^ssod to entangle himself. The king had quite decided
n\yo\\ not allowing a duke, an old general officer, to make a
fvH>l of himself; but as the preparations for these private
Uieutrioals had always tuuuseil him more than the plays them-

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 253

selves, he had appeared not to disapprove of the Marchioness's
extraordinary project. . He liked very much to have the parts
rehearsed to him in private; he showed, it would appear,
some talent and animation in these little lessons. The Mar-
shal himself could give them pretty well ;* but as for receiving
them, he felt that he should prove but a poor scholar.

He had therefore begun in time. When Madame de Pom-
padour had spoken at her toilet, as reckoning upon him, she
knew even more than she said. The king had told her in
confidence that Richelieu was already learning his lesson, and
that he hunself heard him repeat it.

That same evening, about an hour before the expected
rehearsal, the king and his first lord-in- waiting were chatting
together at the fireside. The king was in rather good
humour, which happened usually when he thought he had
enough to fill up his evening. The Marshal, contrary to his
habit, seemed rather absorbed. This gave additional cause
for good humour to the king, who called him a young begin-
ner, and was amused at his apprehensions.

" Well, after all," said Louis XV., after having done his
best to help him out with one of the long speeches of old
Lisimon, "do you know that this piece is not worth the
deuce?"

He threw it upon the mantel-piece. It was a pamphlet in
octavo, in that coarse, grayish, yellowish paper, on which all
that was not a costly edition was printed at that time. We
may remark, by the way, that paper has taken a long time to
become civilized. Not so much as a hundred years ago, the
most refined Marquises wrote their billets-doux on a sort of
coarse paper that a corporal in our day would despise.

"You may well say so. Sire I" answered Richelieu, in a
lamentable tone.

* He had, as first gentleman of the chamber, the sap^rintendence of the royal theatrcp.

254 FRANCE BEFORE THE SETOLUTIOy.

'^ Don't complain too much. Your part is the best — ^I
mean to say, the least positively bad. Besides," added the
king, laughing, " acted by you."

" Your Majesty intends to finish me quite."

" You are very modest, Richelieu."

" You are very crael, Sire."

" Par pari refertur.^*

It was another malicious trick of the king's to speak Latin
to the Marshal. He knew but very little himself; but we
may remember that Bichelieu did not know even a word.

" I beg your pardon ?" said Bichelieu.

" Well, I am only paying you back. Were you not laugh-
ing at me when you told me that I sang well ?"

"How?"

" There is no how in the matter. You were laughing."

"Me, Sire I"

" * Moi, Seigneur, mol, que j'eoase nne ftme si traitrene 1" *

said the king, reciting. "Come, Cinna," pursued he, "let
us have no exclamations."

" ' Sieds-toi ; je n'ai pas dlt encore ce que je veux.' " f

" Say it, then, Sire."

" Well, then, one day that M. Rousseau's Devin de Village
had been rehearsed at the Marchioness's, I was humming I
do not know what air. * Well,' said you, * very well 1 ' and
at last I believed you. All at once what did I see in the
glass?"

"What, Sire, did you really see?"

" Very good. Hahemus conjit" —

" I beg your pardon ?"

" I saw — ^what you remember very well, as I perceive — ^I
saw my first gentleman of the chamber, my admirer, a moment

* Comeille'8 OintM, Act V. Scene 1. t Idem,

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 255

before — I saw him making signs that people should stop their
ears. Did I see correctly, your Grace of Eichelieu ?

"' Tu te tais maintenant, et gardes le silence.
Plus par coBfusion que par ob^issance.'"*

" Go on, Sire."

"What?"

" Your part. I am waiting for * Soyons amis J " f

" Have we ceased to be friends ?"

" Oh I Sire, that is still more magnanimous."

" Well, since we are friends again, and that the first proof
of friendship is candour" —

The king shook his head.

" Finish the sentence. Sire."

" The truth, dear Duke, obliges me to tell you that you
have all the requisites for spoiling — a part in itself not worth
much."

Eichelieu appeared astonished. Notwithstanding his dis-
like to repeating poetry, his vanity had led him to suppose he
did not repeat it badly.

" Yes," resumed the king ; " since the author has put so
much stiffness into it, at least the actor ought not to take
from it the little nature that is left. You have far too much
of the fine gentleman about you, Eichelieu, to act the charac-
ter of an honest old man."

" Let them release me from the honest old man's character,
then. I shall be pleased enough."

" No, by no means I Come — these lines once more — and
let us try to put a little less effect where only feeling is
wanted."

Eichelieu rose, walked away a few steps, then returning
with the look of a man seeking for something, recited : —

* Comeille'8 Cinna, Act V. Scene 1. f Idem, Scene 3.

2.56 ntAXCE BEFORE THE BEV0LCn05.

- " ' Toiei <l»e le ixfis»

Ou moo £Li «•( T«na laksgoxr dk&i T

" That is better/' said the king.

" ' Tocre tfM, O mon Diea, Taon-t^I
Aa milieQ des horrran ' " —

" More <?entlv ! More softlv ! *'

" ' d* on destin si fimerta 1

he reremi-je ? On Inen, duks le i^oiir edeste,
Lai pajcz-Toos d^ji le prix de aes Tenos ?"

" Ta — ^ta — ta — ta ; you are up in the clouds."

"Who? The poet or I?"

" Both ; besides, here is another absurdity which I had not
observed."

"Where?"

" It is a Protestant who is speaking. The Protestants
never say t/ou to God."

" You are right. Poets are continually doing the same
thing. Our Greeks and Romans are not more like Greeks
and Komans than that same Lisimon is like a Protestant."

" You should say that to your friend Voltaire."

" Yes, if I wished to make him my mortal enemy. If we
wore to believe him, it is he who has revived the manners,
language, and colouring of antiquity. ' Comeille,' he says,
* had some idea of it ; Racine, not the least,' which is, by the
way, tnio enough. He has gone to the original sources — and
Rft<^r all, if wc except some slight shade of difference, it is
jiiHt the same thing. The Greeks would not recognise tbem-
selvcH better in Merope than in Phedre ; the Romans, better
in Char J than in Britannicus, He says, that in Mahomet,
ho has ])Hintcd the manners of the Arabs ; in Zaire, the man-
ners of (Christians and Mussulmans ; and we should only have
to change names and to modify some few details in order to
make his pretended Arabs Christians, his Christians Arabs,

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 257

and his Mussulmans either Christians or Arabs. We breathe
a false atmosphere, Sire."

" Yes," added the king, " and that is the worst description
of falsehood which speaks in the name of truth. What you
were saying of the theatre might be said of all the writings
of the day. In the days of fiction, it was truth concealed be-
neath falsehood ; now-a-days, when everybody has become a
reasoner, it is falsehood that hides itself under the appearance
of truth. But come — it will soon be the appointed hour — we
are expected at the Marchioness's. Be natural, Eichelieu.
You have just been preaching very well — preach a little by
your example."

Madame de Pompadour was indeed waiting for them, but
occupied meanwhile with other things. While the King of
France was talking of poetry with an old courtier by the fire-
side, his mistress, with two ministers of state, was engaged in
drawing up the budget and discussing plans for the campaign.

The Duke de Choiseul, whom we have seen minister for
foreign affairs, had been for some months minister of war. He
had kept the two departments for a time ; then, giving up the
former to the Count de Choiseul-Praslin, his relative and crea-
ture, he had taken that of the navy — a sinecure, as some wits
said, since the English had relieved France of her ships and
her colonies. Berryer, his predecessor, had only made blun-
ders while in office. As meddling as he was inefficient, he
had but completed the ruin of what was still called the fleet.
But he was, like M. de Soubise, Madame de Pompadour's
protigi. When the navy was taken fi:om him, the seals were
given him. Thus, a lieutenant of police had been made mini-
ster of naval affairs ; and from minister of naval affairs, he
had been turned into a chancellor. Such was, indeed, the
history of all public offices. " A calculator was wanted ; a
dancer was appointed."

VOL. II, * B

258 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

But the most important department, and at the same time
the one in the most mined condition, was that of the finances.

We have seen the king contending with M. de Silhoaette,
the comptroller-general, on the sahject of the retrenchments
required of him by the latter in the expenditure of the Court.
M. de Silhouette had effected considerable reforms, which only
served to open the eyes of the public to the enormity of
abuses. Thus, for instance, the linen for the use of the king
and the royal family was renewed every three years. It cost
considerable sums ; and the linen that was set aside }>a88ed
into the hands of the chief attendants while almost new. It
was decided that it should last five years.*

The reforming minister had been praised to the skies. " If
M. de Silhouette," wrote Voltaire to Thiriot, " goes on as he
has begun, he must have a niche reserved for him in the
temple of glory, quite close to CJolbert." Alas I he had be-
gun by retrenching the money for play ; and this money, as
we have seen, had only taken another road to come back into
the prodigal hand of the king. It was the same thing, more
or less, with all the improvements that the comptroller-general
had thought of.

The king was not even satisfied with taking back with one
hand what the other had let go. Yielding to a temptation, of
which we would fain believe that he did not see the extent of
the shame, he had considered it allowable to seek in specula-
tion a resource for supplying the secret exactions of his luxury
and debauchery. He had formed, or sanctioned, the formation
of a complete system of agency with this object. His name,
scarcely concealed, figured in the most dishonourable specula-
tions. It had cost him but little to enter upon it ; to go on
was easier still. Five years later, so little care was taken

* Necker had it decided that it should last aercn yean

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND BUGUEN0T3. 259

even to keep up appearances, that the name of a treasurer of
com on account of his Majesty was in the Royal Almanac.
Considerable monopolies were made in several of the provinces
under the name of this agent ; and public rumour, as might
have been expected, did not fail to magnify the profits. Never
did prince trifle more imprudently with unpopularity.

But to return. Instead of obtaining a niche in the temple
of glory. Silhouette had not remained a year in office. After
some weeks of that easily won popularity which is never with-
held from those who appear to mean to do well, he foimd
himself once more, like others before him, with empty coffers
and an exhausted country. These coffers had to be filled.
Silhouette could think of no better way of doing this than by
calling every one to the great work, and every one had com-
plained — those who had always paid taxes, because they were
not now to pay lees ; and those who were called upon to begin
to pay, because they were accustomed to leave it to others.
The people imagined that by dint of trying, money would be
found at last without their giving it. It was quite the same
story as that of an indignant expostulator who said to the
Abbe Terray, one of the successors of Silhouette, " What I my
lord, would you take the money out of our very pockets?" to
which the abbe replied very candidly, " Where else, then,
would you have me take it from ?"

But for this, the new system was a good one. It very
much resembled the one which experience has since caused to
be adopted. A general system of taxation, according to de-
termined proportions, was to reach all landed property, that of
the nobility and clergy included. The citizen was to pay for
keeping his shop ; the nobility for keeping carriages and foot-
men. The usual personal tax, the old capitation^ was to be
tripled in the case of bachelors who were in the receipt of a
certain income. Special duties were to be laid upon articles

260 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

of luxury. It was, in fact, equality introduced by taxation,
before it was introduced by the laws and manners.

No one would bear of it at such a cost and under such a
form. The edict, registered by force, could not be put into
execution ; and the comptroller-general, driven to extremities,
had been induced to commit deplorable acts of violence. The
sinking fund, public deposits, all that was within his reach,
disappeared in the gulf, and disappeared without its being
even seen of what use were these desperate measures. He
had at last retired from office, overpowered by curses and
sarcasms. "What a schemer is that Silhouette I" wrote Vol-
taire ; " the translator of Pope's * All 's Well ' soon made me see
that all is ill." Trousers without pockets, which were then
wora, were called des culottes d la Silhouette. Portraits re-
presenting the shadow instead of the reality were called, and
the name has been preserved, des Silhouettes,

To turn him into ridicule was easy ; but no one ventured
to hope to do better. Bertin, lieutenant of police, had to be
entreated long before he would succeed to Silhouette. When
diseases are hopeless, only quacks come forward, and Bertin
was not one of these. " You will not be comptroller-general ?"
said the king one day to him. " It is a proof that you know
the place." He accepted at last; and, as he had promised
nothing, he was the more easily forgiven for finding out no
remedy. One fact may show what a degree of exhaustion the
treasury had reached ; at his entrance upon office, Bertin had
not literally found a single crown to carry on public affairs.
Five hundred thousand francs lent by the Prince de Conti
provided for the most urgent necessities. Shortly after, we
find the comptroller-general negotiating with the Jews of
Strasbourg. They ofiered some millions; and would have
been satisfied with four per cent, interest a month. They were
refused with indignation. But the army in Germany was

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 261

without money or supplies. The Jews would abate nothing,
and the minister was about to sign. At last, news arrived
that the squadron of the Marquis of Conflans, after being
roughly handled by the English, had returned into harbour,
and could not for a certain time go to sea again. The money
embarked for the pay of the crews was quickly sent for, and
despatched beyond the Khine. A defeat became a fortunate
event.

It was, then, Bertin, who, at the period to which we have
been brought by this story, held the finance department.
France had at last become accustomed, like the king himself,
to this irremediable state of distress. No one now thought,
while rolling down hill, what might be found at the bottom.
The comptroller-general was the driver. No one expected him
to stop the course of the car : provided he avoided the worst
jolts, every one was satisfied.

Like Colbert, he even found time and money for things not
strictly in his department. He founded the veterinary school
of Alfort ; he encouraged and extended the manufactory of
Sevres ; he encouraged likewise the formation of agricultural
societies throughout the kingdom ; he employed the Marquis
de Brequigny to collect documents in England, relating to
the history of France in the Middle Ages. Madame de
Pompadour delighted in sharing the glory of these under-
takings. She patronized trade through Bertin as she did the
arts through Marigny. Whether the real motive was zeal
or self-interest, still it was from her that the few great or
useful works proceeded which were still undertaken in France.

She had just spent an hour or two with Choiseul and
Bertin. They had brought with them — ^the one, the budget
of expenses ; the other, the budget of receipts ; and as usual
there was a difference of about half between the two.

" Have you thought of nothing, found nothing ?" she said.

262 FRANXE BEFORE THE DEVOLUTION.

" Madam," replied Bertin, " to think of expedients would
be easy. M. de Silhouette thought of expedients enough,
and you know what it all came to."

" But, in short," resumed she, " this state of things cannot
last for ever."

" Nor have I, you know, hound myself to remain for ever
in office. I mean to lighten the present, if possible ; but it
is evident that I can only do it at the expense of the future.
Once the war is over, I retire."

" In that case," said Choiseul, " we stand the chance of
keeping you a long while."

" Take care. I said that I would not willingly abandon
my post before peace was established ; but supposing the war
to last, it might possibly become untenable — a hint to your
Grace. My business is to find money. I have foimd and
shall still find it. But — ^the strings are stretched dangerously
tight."

" Bah I" said the Duke. " You financial men" —

" Money, Duke, is" —

" The sinew of war f it is an old adage, my dear comp-
troller."

" Change it ; I should be all the better pleased."

" The sinew of war is" —

"Is what?"

" Is daring."

" Bravo I " said the Marchioness. " Well, dear Duke, what
are we going to dare ?"

But neither the Marchioness, in crying " Bravo," nor the
Duke in speaking of daring, had any real confidence in dar-
ing measures. The game was lost. There was now nothing
left but to fall without dishonour.

" In the first place," said he, " if Spain loses, which is
certain, the greater part of its colonies, it must get some

PRIESTS, INFJDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 263

indemnity in Europe. I have provided for this indemnity.
By one of the secret articles of the Facte de famille, we re-
cognise the King of Spain's right to the sovereignty of
Portugal, in the event that he can and will take possession
of it. If we urge him to it, he will ; if we assist him, he
perhaps can. At all events, this will be a powerful diver-
sion ; England, to support Portugal, will at once be engaged
in a war, in which we shall only take the part that may
suit us."

" That is a means," said the comptroller, " of giving
breathing-time for a month or two ; still, the troops that you
will lend the King of Spain to assist him in taking Portugal,
must be found and equipped. What next ? either one thing
or the other, — the expedition will succeed or it will fail. K
it should fail, which is probable enough, we are beaten in the
south— a bad prognostic for success in the north. If it should
succeed, so much the better for the King of Spain ; but what
would we gain by it ?"

" Time," said Choiseul, " time — ^which is often more valu-
able than money. Whilst all eyes are fixed upon Portugal,
a new alliance may be concluded with the states which have
kept aloof from the other. Holland, Denmark, Sweden, Sar-
dinia, all the neutral states have had to complain of England,
all are in reality on our side. It is not with us, however,
that I should ask them to form an alliance" —

"It would not be very tempting," muttered the comp-
troller-general.

" But between themselves," pursued Choiseul. " A mutual
guarantee between all the neutral powers, this is what I wish
for. Before six months are over, without our having any
need to interfere in it, England, with its bravadoes, will have
obliged this alliance to take up arms, and then we shall find
ourselves at the head of all the maritime resources of Europe."

264 FBAXCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTIOX.

Bertin shook his head.

" The plan does not want for grandenr. Eyents maj
perhaps justify you, bnt if not, where does it lead ns ? With
all the maritime forces of Europe, shall we be so saperior to
England, as to be sure of vanquishing her ? No, no I Peace,
my lord, peace, at any price, and as soon as possible."

" Peace ! " cried the minister. " Then we must begin by
destroying that treaty which has cost us so much labour."

" And will cost so much blood."

" We may recover the loss of blood — ^but never that of
honour."

" France has sustained her honour often enough."

" She can do more yet."

" She will, if you command it, but not on her own account.
Now it will be on yours, to satisfy your vanity."

" What do you mean, sir ?"

" Yes, you are thinking of yourself, and only of yourself
now. T^dt treaty is your work. You will not allow that
it comes too late, or too soon — ^too late to be of use ; too
soon not to complicate our present embarrassments. Honour,
say you, honour forbids us to yield. Well, another year or
two like the one about to close, and you will see whether we
shall not be obliged, whether we will or not, to consent to all
that England may demand. I do not know what honour
may require of us at this moment, but what it requires of
you, is not to force us on to our ruin."

The Duke was accustomed to this violent language.

" Sir," said he coldly, " as to what concerns the question
of ho' our, you will allow me to take no other judge than
rays .If. As for the rest, I confess I was not aware that you
agreed so well with the friends of the King of Prussia ; but
you will grant me, in your turn, that no one would expect to
find such sentiments in the council of the King of France.*'

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 265

"Well, I cease to belong to it!" cried the comptroller-
general. " My resignation shall be in the king's hands in a
quarter of an honr."

"Who wants me?" said the king, who was coming in,
followed by Eichelieii, and had heard these last words.

" It would seem that the council is being held here," added
he, turning an inquiring glance towards our three personages,
who had risen on his appearance.

He seemed, however, to be more surprised at the time chosen
than at the thing itself. Madame de Pompadour had never
concealed from him, except in case of having particular
reasons for doing so, her deliberations with the principal
ministers. He liked to trust to her, and have only to confirm
afterwards, in council, what had been already agreed upon
between her and them.

" Come, Sire," said she ; " come, and make peace."

" Peace I " interrupted Bertin. " Thank you, Madam. I
accept that word as a good omen. Yes, Sire, come and make
peace, not between the Duke and myself — which is of very
little consequence — ^but between France and Europe. I have
examined. Sire, as far as I am concerned, our situation for
next year. It is disastrous, it is untenable."

" Come," said the king, sitting down, " are you speaking
seriously? For ten years past I have been told the same
thing. Disastrous — untenable ; and yet we hold on, after all."

" Till we can hold together no longer."

" It will last"—

He was about to repeat his abominable phrase : a glance
stopped him. The Marchioness was distressed at this in-
curable egotism. She wished to rule ; but the more she felt
the need of power, the more, also, it was her interest not to
allow it to become degraded in the person of him who was
its source.

266 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

" But," resumed he, " it is not exactly for that purpose
that we come. Madam."

" One moment, I entreat. Sire."

" Let it be, then, one moment. — ^What were you saying,
M. Bertin?"

Choiseul was anxious to keep Bertin in the ministry. He
esteemed him as a man and as an administrator ; besides, he
saw no one to take his place.

" Sire," said he, without allowing him to answer, " M.
Bertin wishes for peace."

" And I, also," said the king.

" We, also — ^we all," resumed the Duke. " We are agreed
in substance ; and this is by no means a time to quarrel about
details."

" Details I " muttered Bertin. But the minister and the
Marchioness, at the same moment, cast upon him a look, half
imperious, half supplicatory. He was silent.

"We were talking," resumed the Duke, "of a plan of
campaign."

" Already I" said the king. " In winter?"

" I should not be astonished. Sire, if the Spanish colonies
were already attacked by the English."

" War is not yet declared."

" It is about to be declared ; and our neighbours are not
very nice. We already know something of that."

" True. How many ships did they take from us in 1756,
before the official rupture?"

" Nearly three hundred, Sire, without counting three ships
of war."

" And how many have we lost of the latter during the last
five years?"

" Ninety-three," said Bertin.

"And we have left — ?"

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 267

" Ah I Sire," said the comptroller-general, without paying
any attention to the irritated looks of the prime minister,
" we have just enough left to give a little glory to those who
take them from us."

" Be silent, sir I " cried Choiseul. " You calumniate France."

" I tell the king the truth."

" Our navy" —

"Where is it?"

" Where is it ? Listen to me, listen to me. Sire. In a year
I shall have eleven new ships of the line which will not have
cost you a farthing."

" What do you say?" exclaimed the king. He was begin-
ning to rouse himself a little.

" Eleven, Sire, eleven. I have sounded the corporations
in several provinces, the town of Paris, the company of the
Farmers of the Eevenue, that of Annuities, and all those
bodies are ready to offer each its ship. You will see, sir," add-
ed he, addressing himself to Bertm, " you will see whether
France is as completely lifeless as you dare to assert."

" Well, Sire," said the Marchioness ; " eleven ships — ^what
do you think of that?"

" I think that there is enough to increase a little the glory
of which M. Bertin spoke."

** What, Sire I you likewise " —

" Do you really think that those who have taken ninety-
three will not take eleven more?* but, however — yes — it is
a handsome gift. These provinces and companies are richer
than we are."

" It will produce an immense effect," resumed Choiseul.
" Eleven ships so furnished are worth more than twenty-two
or thirty built at the expense of the state."

* " Poor France, with your shipg from the proyincea ! Make proTision of coffee and
aogar ; for you will soon pay dear for it"— VoUaire. Letter to d'Argental, March 1782.

268 FRA.NCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

" I must see," said the king, " under what fonn I can
thank all these people, for every question has two sides ; they
must be thanked. A king thanking his subjects I Never
mind, I shall thank them. Eleven ships — ^yes, it will be
worth while. Eleven — ^why not twelve ?"

" The twelfth is quite ready. Sire ; but as for accepting it,
that is a very serious question."

"Who has offered it?"

" The Protestant Committee."

" A serious question, as you say."

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AMD HUGUENOTS. 269

CHAPTER XIII.

A PEW details are necessary in this place.

For some years past, it had been thought that the embar-
rassments of Grovernment might be turned to account in order
to bring about the cessation of religious persecution.

A bank was first proposed. The Discount Bank, whose
operations had been suspended by the war, might be set up
again by means of funds fiimished exclusively by the Pro-
testants. This bank, being founded with the king's authoriz-
ation, and acknowledged as a public establishment, would be
an immense step towards their admission to civil rights.

The Marshal de Belle-Isle, then president of the council,
had received the first overtures favourably. It was already at
his suggestion that the king had created the order of Militcvry
Merits in favour of the Protestant officers, who were necessarily
unfit for receiving the cross of St. Louis. The idea was gene-
rous, but extraordinary. To create an order of knighthood
for people who had been deprived even of the right of letting
out horses!*

A person of the name of Cotin, of whom we have no further
knowledge, had been commissioned by the Marshal to follow
up the business of the bank. Several letters from this agent
have been found amongst Rabaut's papers. " It would be
easy," he wrote, in July 1760, "to find three or four millions
for an undertaking involving no risk ; the more so as this is

* Edict of Jane le, 1681.

270 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOI^UTION.

the only means that the Protestants have of drawing upon
them the attention of the sovereign, or meriting kindness
from him." It was still more strange, as we see, than the
institution of an order. That toleration which had been re-
fused them for eighty years, as contrary to the laws of God
and the sacred rights of the Church, was now offered them
for money. Already, the year before, the Marshal had writ-
ten to one of the authors of this project : " I shall be very
well pleased if you begin with three or four millions, provided
you use all the diligence that the circumstances may render
necessary, and enable me soon to begin our negotiations."

The affair was, however, less advanced than the minister
seemed to think ; it is not even sure but that the first idea
proceeded from some intriguing persons who manoeuvred at
Paris between the Government and the Churches ; they were
sometimes useful to the persecuted Protestants, but often suc-
ceeded better in compromising than in serving their interests.

The advantages were indeed doubtful ; the disadvantages
certain. Some individual Protestants had given their con-
sent ; but they were soon unanimous in deciding that the
thing should not take place.

Eabaut had been one of the first to oppose it. A memorial,
also found amongst his papers, has preserved his reasons for
us. " It is asserted," said he, " amongst other considerations,
that if even his Majesty did not accept it, it could but be
honourable and useful to us to have shown ourselves such
good citizens and zealous subjects, when we are refused the
name and the privileges of such. But it is not enough to set
up the bank ; it must be supported. Additional funds will
be wanted, and then less will be found than at first. The
bank will fall to the ground, and the least that then can
happen to us is to be laughed at." Thus, according to
Babaut, if the bank should fail, nothing would have been

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 271

effected, and millions would be lost; if it should succeed,
would it be quite sure of being appreciated by Government ?
" Do not let us deceive ourselves," pursued lie. " The ene-
mies we have to do with will never be bound down by gra-
titude. If we are at all respected, it is because we are
numerous, industrious, and rich : it is not on account of our
feelings of loyalty, over which the clergy have cast the
darkest cloud possible. Besides, in this case, we should have
too evidently the appearance of being generous from inter-
ested motives ; nor could we even conscientiously affirm that
they had nothing to do with it."

The pastor then pointed out of what importance it was for
the Protestants not to dispose of their ready money, "the
only thing," said he, " of which we are really proprietors, be-
cause we are bound down as regards oiu: landed property, not
being able to sell an inch of it without permission of the
Court. Would it not be tightening our bonds to put into the
hands of the State what it has not as yet been able to take
from us ? The priests would then carry all before them, and
their counsels be the better followed, inasmuch as policy
would no longer have the fear of emigration to oppose to
them. How great might the temptation be to comply with
all required of us, from the fear of losing all by resistance ?
Few would have courage to go away quite empty-handed."
After all, the whole thing might be only a trick to induce the
clergy to contribute more largely to the wants of the State.
A magnificent free gift could not fail to make the " smallness
of our contribution" apparent; the more so, as the Protes-
tants would only have lent, whilst the clergy gave.

This plan was therefore abandoned, but it was to take up
the idea of a free gift, similar to that of the clergy. It was
thought that there could be no objection to the latter. Less
would be given, but it would be a gift ; besides, all might

272 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

contribute to it, whereas only the rich could have set up the
bank. As to the advantages expected, the Protestants need
not be reduced to look for them from doubtful success, or
from gratitude still more doubtful. Precautions might be
taken. They might make sure of having toleration before
paying for it. With this purpose, they would begin by ask-
ing for the king's authorization to present him with a jfree
gift. If the authorization were refused, nothing more could
be said ; if granted, a step was gained. The king would
next be asked himself to name the Protestants who should
collect the money. Now, this nomination by the king would
be an official, though indirect acknowledgment of the exist-
ence of the French Protestants ; and therefore the overthrow
of those laws which were based, as has been seen, upon the
hypothesis that they had ceased to exist.

The Government hesitated on account of this very condi-
tion, which, by Eabaut's advice, the Protestants, on their side,
were determined not to give up. The second project was
consequently abandoned like the first.

It was, however, questionable whether they had done right
in being firm. To bring the king to accept, under any form,
a gift openly announced as coming from the Protestants, was
to recognise a position, said some, from which it would have
been impossible to dislodge them. How could Grovemment
henceforward have sent men to the scaffold or the galleys
whose money had been accepted ? How maintain laws which
refused to them the titles of Protestants and citizens, after
once allowing them to come forward as such ? Many regretted,
therefore, that the affiair had fallen to the ground.

Consequently, when it was proposed to offer ships to the
king, not a few inclined to embrace this new opportunity
which presented itself. Instead of money, they would give a
ship. The committee at Paris, of which Gobelin was presi-

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 273

dent, had sounded the Court ; and the Duke de Choiseul, as
we have just seen, had not as yet formed an opinion, or else
did not think proper to manifest it. He had no feeling of
hatred towards the Protestants ; but neither did he like
them well enough to risk any portion of his credit on their
account.

But the king was not disposed to occupy himself with
serious matters.

" It is, as you say, a serious question," resumed he. " We
will speak of it another time. I really do not know when we
shall have done with these eternal Huguenots. Has that —
Galas been condemned?"

." Not yet, Sii-e."

" It is very tedious."

" Does your Majesty think him guilty?"

" I ? — I know nothing about it. That is the business of the
judges. And that — Rochette — is he dead ?"

" Not yet."

" The edicts are, however, explicit ; and I am told that he
confessed."

"Is it your Majesty's pleasure that he should die?'' said
the Marchioness.

" I do not particularly care about it ; but the edicts are
there — ^they must be executed."

"Your Majesty has power to moderate their severity,"
resumed she.

" To pardon one preacher, would be to pardon and encour-
age them all."

" It must come to that, one time or other," said the comp-
troller-general.

"Perhaps; but we have still too many people who are
opposed to it ; and I am too old to allow myself to be stunned
with their expostulations."

VOL. II. s

274 PEANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

" A famous prize was very nearly taken lately," said Riche-
lieu,

" I know it," said the king ; " the man who hrought me a
petition last year. He was allowed to escape ; and do you
know, by whom. Madam?"

She knew very well.

" By whom ?" said the Marchioness.

" By Namiers, your friend."

" He rendered us a great service. Sire," said the Duke de
Choiseul.

"A service?"

" Yes. The news of the minister's arrest sufficed to agitate
the country. If his deliverance had not been known at ODce,
we might suddenly have had half of Languedoc on our hands,
and your Majesty is quite aware that the English have their
eyes upon that province."

"And now?"

" All is quiet again. Rabaut himself opposed all plans of
rebellion."

" Very good ; but, nevertheless, Namiers took upon himself
extraordinary powers. Scold him well for it. Marchioness."

" What a commission, Sire I"

" Well, when I see him " —

" Your Majesty will see him immediately. He is one of
our" —

" Oh I indeed I Good evening, Duke — good evening, M.
Bertin. Try and agree, try and agree. Do you get money
for me, and you lose as little for me as you can ; and may
God save France I Go."

" Yes," muttered Bertin, as he went away, " yes ; may God
save France I — ^he is right ; for if it is not God who saves it,
it will certainly not be he."

" What do you say ?" said Choiseul.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 275

" Oh I nothing, nothing. What urgent occupation has the
king this evening ?"

" A play, I believe."

The financier pulled his hat over his eyes, and held his
portfolio tight under his arm. As he came through the
gallery, grumbling —

"My lord I"

" My lord I " cried twenty eager petitioners, who were
waiting to catch him as he passed — for one of the privileges
of the comptroller-general was to have as many people con-
stantly at his heels as all the other ministers put together.
Pensions, which were granted indiscriminately, were never
regularly paid. " 1 have granted you a pension of a thousand
crowns," said Louis XV. himself to one of the officers of his
household, but do not increase your expenses, for it will never
be paid you." Like the nobleman who said to one of his
friends, "What do you give your valet?" — "A hundred
crowns." — " I give two hundred to mine — it is true that I
never pay him."

It was a small matter to obtain a pension ; the great thing
was to have it paid. Even the king's word was neither guaran-
tee nor assurance. In this same year, 1761, we find him sub-
scribing for two hundred copies of an edition of Comeille, with
notes, the proceeds of which were to be the marriage portion
of a descendant of the great tragedian. Voltaire appreciated
highly the honour of having the king's name at the head of
his subscribers ; but as for the money, we see from his letters,
he by no means reckoned upon it.

Pensions were thus in arrears for three months, six months,
whole years. Thence that general mendicity of which the
comptroller was the troubled centre. At his entrance upon
office, whatever his rank might be, the princes of the blood
sent to compliment him, and this singular homage paid

276 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

to money, had been repeated five or six times during the
last ten years ; the Duchess of Orleans, indeed, when
sending to M. de Silhouette, the day after his appointment,
had desired the question to be asked, if he was still in office.
But the more advances made, the more those who made them
thought they had a right to exact. Thence all those endless
recriminations, of which the comptroller-general was the
object, obliged as he was to choose amongst the claimants,
and continually to cause quite as much discontent as satis-
faction.

But that evening, Bertin was too much out of sorts himself
to wish to satisfy any one. He did not even look at the peti-
tioners ; he pushed aside roughly all the petitions. He knew
that he had only enough in his coffers to provide for what
was most urgent. Nor on his return to his hotel, did he find
anything of the little he had left there ; receipts for ready
money had carried almost all off. These were drafts signed
by the king's hand, and the treasury was obliged to pay them
immediately, whatever might be the state of the finanees.
We need scarcely say that this ready money was generally
reserved for illegal favours and disgraceful payments.

Such was the state of France in 1761.

Is it improved? Are we improved? — ^for the question
will apply, not to France only, but to the present generation
as a whole — are we better than the eighteenth century ?

Let those answer who can, and those decide who dare.
Sources of corruption have been closed up ; sources of corrup-
tion have been opened out. Many things have changed their
names, but the things themselves remain. Pensions were then
solicited, without any right to them ; situations are now given
without any merit having deserved them. Ministers are less
run after, but it is because people are more regularly paid. Less
money is asked of them, because they have something better

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. ^77

to bestow. What was given, then ? Some crowns. Now,
a raikoad is given, on which, in a few moments, you may
gain a hundred thousand. The corraption which came down
from the throne did not extend beyond a certain sphere : in
our day, what house, what heart, is secure from that which
springs up on all points of the soil ? Out of the circle of the
great moneyed men, no one, or almost no one, at that time,
thought of making rapid fortunes. Opportunities, it is true,
were wanting ; but, after all, supposing opportunities and
temptations to be wanting, primitive simpHcity stHl existed
on all these points. A fortune to make, was a tree to plant and
allow to grow up, under God's favour and that of the seasons.
The tree was taken care of; it was not lost sight of, its
smallest growth was measured gladly. But no one thought
of hastening it otherwise than by care, labour, and patience.*
The father had planted, the sons watered ; and both father
and sons thought it quite natural that the first-fruits should
be for the grandsons.

Is that the case with us ? Does not our severity towards
the eighteenth century proceed, in some measure, from the
fiact, that the evil was then in high places, which is now
everywhere ?

To return to our story.

The actors were waiting in an adjoining room. They
were, besides those whom Madame de Pompadour had named
at her toilet, the Countess d'Estrades, the Duke de Coigny,
the Marquises de Namiers and de Courtenvaux, There was
to be no audience but the king.

To while away time, they had begun to talk of the piece.
They said what they thought of it; and those who were
obliged to study it could not think much of it.

* From 1740 to '45, there wore only seTenteen beakniptoies in Parla» about four a year.

278 FKANCE BEFORE THE RErOLUnON.

" What a character I" said the Duke of Orleans. ** What
a heap of" — "^

"Your Grace," said the Count d'Entraigues, "will not
have a Thibault every day."

Thibault, in the Partie de Chasse de Henri IV., was his
favourite character. He had brought it out— created it, as
the phrase is — on the little theatre at his villa at Bagnolet.

" This Count d'Anplace is the most insignificant, the meet
stupid " —

"Do you complain? I should be glad, for my part, ta
have only to be insignificant. That d'Olban, with his sen-
tencesy his speeches, his pompous phrases, his unsociable-
ness " —

" A bad comment upon the Misanthrope " —

" And on the fury of Orestes. Just see how he makes me
begin —

' Bnfin, graces au ciel, contre la Taee humaina
Le sort a pleinement JusUfiS ma haine.
Qu'on Tienne maintenaiit '" —

" Yes, yes ; a second edition of the great lines —

* Je Buis content, et mon sort eat rempli !'"*

" An edition revised and " —

" Spoiled."

" And vulgarized, like everything else in these times.''

"Poor Protestants I" said the Marquis de Namiers. "So
much bad prose written against them, such bad poetry in
their favour I"

"One would forgive the bad poetry," said the Marquis
d'Entraigues, " if the plot had any common sense in it. Here
we have two intimate friends — ^two old, very old friends, and
yet it is the first time that Cecilia confesses to Amelia her
very old attachment to a certain individual " —

* Racine's Andromache, Act V. Scene &

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS, 279

" To me," said Marigny, bridling up.

" Oh ! the coxcomb ! Look at him I He is beloved, that
is enough. His part pleases him."

" You are jealous, d'Olban. But go on ; let us see if you
have remarked all the beauties of this masterpiece."

" Well. Andr6, the favoured lover, is at the galleys ; but
his fEdthful mistress knows nothing about it. Where was
she, what was she doing, when he was sent there, a victim
to his sacrifice for his father? Nobody knows. The most
curious part of the stTory is, that no one at Toulon, not even
the officer at the head of the bagnio, knows why Andr6 is
there. He persists in not telling it ; the secret of his devoted-
ness is to die with him. But Cecilia arrives at Toulon. She
has accompanied her friend thither, who comes for the pur-
pose of marrying you, Marigny ; and who, at the very moment
of saying yes, says no, because an old uncle, on whose fortune
you reckoned, persists in not dying. Then I, d'Olban, arrive
from America, to marry Oecilia, who cannot endure me, who
declares she will remain faithfal to Andre, which has not pre-
vented her marrying, meanwhile, an old Croesus, who, happily,
has died, leaving her all his fortune. As for me, a lawsuit
that I have just lost has put me into awfully bad humour,
and Cecilia's refusal puts me quite out of my mind.

" In the midst of all this, Andr6, who does not recognise
Cecilia, begins to ask her for news of his home and his father.
He has rejected the offers of the Count, who is both able and
willing to serve him ; and addresses himself to a stranger,
whom he perceives by chance on the quay. Why ? I do not
know, nor does the author either, doubtless. Be that as it
may, after some questions, they recognise each other, and —
do not embrace each other, because Cecilia cannot but believe
that her lover is at the galleys for some crime. Does he even
undeceive her ? No. His discretion returns ; he will not tell

5^80 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

that he is innocent, that he has sacrificed himself for his
father, even at the risk of seeing her die of sorrow and shame.

" Then at last comes in old Lisimon in person — ^for the
story must have an end one time or other. He tells his story,
and that of Andre, to whoever will listen to him. All is
cleared up. Andr6 is proclaimed to be the most virtuous of
men. The king is to be entreated to grant him his pardon ;
he is allowed, which is not quite legally correct, to act as if
he had already obtained it. He marries Cecilia. Amelia,
portioned by Cecilia, marries the Count d'Anplace — and there
I, d'Olban, remain looking at them. But they are very kind
hearted. They gravely propose to me, in order to console
me, and I suppose likewise for the pleasure of saying one
more absurdity, to go and live with them — and that is all.
Observe that there are ^ve acts, and that the principal, the
real subject, does not occupy one-half."

"Very good I" said the Duke of Orleans; "dissected by
the hand of a master. I thought I was listening to Freron."

" Thank you."

** What I do you too consider the name an insult ?

" It is the fashion to think so."

" The fashion I I did not know you were its slave so far
as that. Freron, my dear Marquis, is a man who has the
courage to say what he thinks."

" And what he does not think."

" Rarely."

''^Rarely! The word is a convenient one. *You tell
falsehoods, sir. No, rarelyJ "

" Freron has not told as many lies of all our authors put
together, as M. de Voltaire has of Fr6ron alone."

" Possibly."

" Have you seen the last number of the Ann^e LitUrcUref*'*

* Frfiron'B JoamaL

PSIEBTS, INFIDELS, AMD HUGUENOTS. 281

"Did you say V Annie or VAnef^^*

'TAnnier

" I do not read it."

" The loss is yours. You would see there that the ass, if
ass there be, can give some good kicks now and then."

" Because the lion is old."

" Not too old to bite ; and besides, he was not old when
Fr^ron began to attack him."

At this period of the conversation, the king came in.

* " L'Ane Litt^raire/ a pamphlet against Fr&^n.

282 FBANCE BEFORE THE BEYOLUTION.

CHAPTER XIV.

"Gk)OD evening, gentlemen," said Louis XV. "Grood
evening, Countess. — Well, are we ready?"

They bowed.

" By the way, M. de Namiers," resumed he, " it has gene-
rally been believed that there is but one king in France."

" Sire."

" Certain people, it is said, have thought even that too
much."

" Sire."

" I think it is enough. I am told that you are of a dif-
ferent opinion."

" I thought I could not serve you better, Sire, than by
making reparation for the treachery of which one of your
lieutenants had been guilty."

" Very good, very good ; but do not do it a second time.
Besides, cunning is not treachery."

" Sire, M. d'Ambly has condemned himself."

"Unhappy man I" cried the king — ^for all idea of sudden
death, suicide, apoplexy, assassination, laid painful hold of his
imagination. He did not like to feel himself so near to God,
to eternity, to hell.

" Let us begin," resumed he.

He sat down. One-half of the room, which was unoccupied,
represented the stage. There were neither costumes nor
scenery.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 28S

They began. Andre, the convict, walks alone on the shore.

" Le lever du soleil, en ce briUant lointain,
Ne m'a jamais semblg si beau que ce matin.
La mer parait tranquille, et le del sans nuage
Promet aux matelots un jour exempt d'orage.
Pour moi seul sur la terre il n'est plus de beaux jours.
Que sert le calme, hglas ! quand on a feit nauflrage ?
J'ai tout perdu ; I'eapoir m'est rati pour toujours,
Dieu, qui vois mes tourments, tu sais si j'en murmure.
Signe honteux du crime et son vil chfttiment,
Cette chalne est bien cbdre k mon coeur innocent.
J'aime k sentir son poids," &c.

These lines, intended to be simple, but which are quite the
reverse, were repeated by Marigny with a truth and simplicity
which were almost touching. He excelled in putting nature
in the stead of art, truth instead of affectation.

The Duke of Orleans, who succeeded him on the stage,
likewise made laudable efforts to be more simple and natural
than the absurd character he acted. But it was a strange
part to play for a prince of the blood, to declaim against
nobility and the nobles in presence of the King of France.
Boileau had ventured to do it before Louis XIV. ; but what
was then only a witty sally without importance, had assumed
a more aggressive form with the new ideas. We are asto-
nished in our day, to see what great lords, a hundred years
ago, could listen to without displeasure.

That liberality, it is true, was in fact only one of the many
forms under which their insensibility was manifested. The
most obstinate sinners are those who are the least displeased
at the freedom of the pulpit. Such was the case at that time,
as regarded the freedom of philosophy. It was applauded
precisely because people thought themselves quite sure never
to have to listen to it seriously. Inequality seemed too firmly
established in the laws and manners of the country, to admit
of their seeing any danger in allowing equality to be spoken
0^ or in speaking of it themselves.

284 PRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

Thus it was with an expression of perfect conviction that
the Duke of Orleans repeated these lines —

** O chdre amante !

En vain nous nous aimons

Oncle injuste ! Oui, c'est lui, son prSjugg barbare,
Qui seul, tant qu'il vivra, nous retient, nous sgparo— >
Elle n'est pas noble, elle, AmSlie ! O blaspbdme !
La noblesse n'est rien. ou c'est la vertu mSme —
Je g^mls quand j'entends ainsi d^raisonner,
Quand je vols la sottise, et tout le monde y tombe,
De consulter les morts, de fouiller dans leur tombe
Pour savoir si Ton doit estimer les vivants.
Quoi ! Ton me soutiendra que je me mgsallie
En Spousant les moeuTS, la vertu, la beaut6 ?
Non ! L'orgueil n'inventa la vaine quality
Que pour y supplier et la mettre k leur place."

This was the language in fashion at Court as well as in
town, at the very time that, in the army, no man, if not a
noble, could as yet aim higher than the rank of sergeant.

It was now the Marchionesses turn. She recited poetry, as
she sang, with real talent. Her only fault was being no longer
young; but it was only the more to be admired that she
managed so well as to retain the appearance of youth. The
most simple and innocent characters suited her admirably;
she only felt the weight of advancing years by the eflforts die
was obliged to make not to appear to feel it. This obligation
to remain for ever young cost her some secret distress. *' I
must die a Montespan," she seemed to say ; " for with a king
like this, there will be no Maintenon.'*

On this occasion, it is tnie, she did not so much reqnire to
be youthful. Fenouillot's Cecilia is a very grave, sententious
personage, one of Diderot's saints, in short — and such women
are of no particular age. She went to work courageoilsly,
therefore, poor woman I at the risk of stumbling by the way
over some of those aphorisms with which she herself strewed
it. " Of all feelings," said she, " for instance,

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 286

" * L'amoar est le plus beau, quand la vertu I'^pure/"

which was, as we see, very edifying in the mouth of the king's
mistress, and in presence of that king now old and sated with
pleasure.

But who was going to pause at the ideas expressed ? They
must in that case have paused likewise at the picture which
she drew of the sufferings of the Protestants, which would
have been going rather too far. No one dreamt of such a
thing ; none, save the Marquis de Namiers, once thought of
saying to themselves, that these were realities in the case of a
million of French subjects. This levity was of ancient date.
When Louis XIV., at the height of his severities against the
Protestants, went to St. Cyr to weep over the story of the
misfortunes of the Jews under a sanguinary minister and a
mistaken prince, no voice arose to say either in his own heart,
or in his ear, that he was that king, and that the oppressed
subjects were his. And how can we wonder that the allusion
escaped him, when the poet himself, either did not feel it, or
else, was eager to deny it ? It was the very year of the Revo-
cation, that Racine called Louis XIV. " the wisest and most
perfect of men." It was nearly at the same period that the
good-natured La Fontaine congratulated him publicly on
having reduced " heresy to its last gasp." Let us no longer
ask why kings had no ears ; let us rather ask why those about
them had no hearts.

The piece went on in spite of all these inconsistencies. The
Misanthrope, d'Olban, had here and there excited a laugh ;
but all passed off without too much difficulty, and the work
on the whole left no other feeling than that of real ennui,
Richelieu, for his part, thought it awfully long. His distress
increased ; he longed for and yet dreaded the moment when
it would be his turn to appear before this very small but for-
midable audience.

286 PRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

" You seem quite agitated, Eichelieu," the king whispered
to him.

"Ah I Sire, I do not tremble in this way before your

enemies."

ft

" Well answered ; but the reply is not your own.'

" Neither, thank God I is the nonsense mine that I am

going to have the honour of declaiming before your Majesty.

1 shudder beforehand."

" Bah I — ^but hush I Listen — the Marchioness is going to

liaint." That scene was indeed at hand.

Ain)BE.

" Panvree et retires, parce que nous saiTona
UDe religion qu'on a proscrite en France —

CECILE.

*' Qaoi ! Tous 6tiez de oeux qui, d'une aatre croyanee—
Ah 1 je renaia —

Sans donte qu'il va me donner qnelque lomidre.
Dis-moi, tu connaissais Lisimon?

ANDRE.

" C'est mon pdre,
Madame —

CECILE.
" Cest ton pdre ! Ah ! malheureux Andr6 !

ANDRE.

" Ciel ! quel nom m'a frapp6 ? Que Yois-je ? Est-ce bien elle ?

AMELIE.

" Elle est sans connaissance !— H0I& ! Frontin ! Femdle \
Accourez !"

They hastened forward ; and Madame de Pompadour, sup-
ported by Amelia, did her best to faint.

But all at once, masters and servants stopped short. The
Cardinal de la Eoche-Aymon, the grand-almoner, had just
appeared at the door of the room. The king turned pale.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 287

The Cardinal, who was visibly aflFected, advanced towards
him.

" Sire," said he, " Qtod'a decrees are inscrutable. A heavy
blow is about to fall, or perhaps has already fallen upon your
house. The Duke of Burgundy, your eldest grandson" —

"Well?" cried the king.

" — is dying."

The child had had a fall some time before, having been
thrown down by one of his playmates, and received a wound
on the head, which had been neglected, and had just been
declared mortal.

That same night he died. The Duke of Berry, his brother,
became heir to the throne. The Duke of Berry was Louis
XVI.

What would this child have been had he lived ? A Louis
XIV. or a Louis XV. ? Would he have stemmed the torrent,
or have been carried away by it, like Louis XVT. ? God
only knows I Had he lived, he might, perhaps, have pre-
vented the French Eevolution, at least such as we have seen
it, and the Kepublic, the Empire, and all that has proceeded
and still proceeds from both.

In the great lessons of Providence, the insignificance of the
means employed is often more striking than the immensity of
the result. Two children are at play ; one throws down the
other, and the face of things throughout the world is changed.

Meanwhile the Eevolution was beginning to sound the first
note of its triumphs. The flood was about to pass over one
of the most powerful bulwarks opposed by the ancient system
of society to the encroachments of the modem. The Jesuits
heard their death-knell sounding.

We remarked in our first volume, that it is their fate to be
always guilty, and yet always punished unjustly. We left
them about to appeal to the Parliament of Paris against the

288 PEANCE BEFOBE THE REVOLUTIOK.

sentence by which the order had been condemned to pay thd
debts of one of its members, Father Lavalette, who had first
made a fortune in the West India trade, and had subsequently
been ruined by it.

The law was on their side. Civilly considered, no common
bond of mutual responsibility had ever existed, or did now
exist, between their several houses. Each of these establish-
ments had, like those of the other orders, its own property
and administration ; each had been licensed in France by
special letters-patent, and by that very fact had received from
the French kings a distinct individuality. The superinten-
dence that the General exercised over all the property of the
order did not manifestly suffice in law to constitute this pro-
perty a single estate, or the whole order one individual.

Considered in a moral point of view, of course it was quite
another question. The whole order would have been bene-
fited by Father Lavalette's gains; the whole order ought
therefore to bear his losses. Setting aside all considerations
of conscience or honour, prudence, we should think, ought
to have bound them to it. However, the more serious their
error, the more we ought to reflect before formally accusing
them of it. In the presence of danger so manifest, we cannot
admit that men so able would have hesitated at a cost of some
hundred thousand francs, to extricate themselves. Their
obstinacy, therefore, only proved their confidence in their
right ; and when, after being condemned by the Tribunal of
Commerce, they ventured to have recourse to that Parliament
of Paris which they knew to be almost unanimous against them,
it was a solemn, we had almost said a chivalrous, appeal to
the generosity of their adversaries.

This appeal was not heard. The Parliament did not com-
prehend, that by being just in the first instance, it would have
the better right to be severe afterwards. Passions had risen

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 289

80 high that all calculation, even from interested motives,
seemed to be time lost. Consequently sentence was given
on the 8th of May 1761, to this effect :— " That the General,
and in his person the body and Society of the Jesuits, be con-
demned to defray, as well the principal as the interest and
costs of all protested bills; in default of which, the said
General and the Society shall be held as sureties and respon-
sible for," &c.

But so early as April the 17 th, the Parliament had taken
the first step in the new course, from which it was hencefor-
ward impossible to recede. Even before giving sentence in
the civil trial, it had laid the foundations of the religious and
political one. Orders had been given to the provincial Fathei*
to deposit at the registry of the Parliament a copy of the Con-
stitutions of the Jesuits j and three councillors, with Chauve-
lin at their head, were named to examine them.

In his first report Chauvelin reviewed them rapidly. He
sketched the outline, in general terms, of the plan of that fear-
ful imity. It was questionable, here and there, whether he
admired or criticized. Evidently he put a restraint upon him-
self in not paying open homage to the genius of Loyola.

We must confess that, notwithstanding the ease of the style,
this work is wholly deficient in greatness and philosophy.
The state, the king, the safety of the state, the king^s rights,
this is all that the ardent abb^ — and that sometimes with
puerile solemnity— can see to be in danger from the Jesuits ;
it is to this point that he brings the whole question.

Is it indeed the real question ? We have already shown
that it is not. The rights of governments are something — the
safety of states is a great deal ; but the rights of man, that
is, of conscience and reason, are much more — they are the
important matter, they are all in all. It is with these rights
that Jesuitism must, above all, be shown to be at variance.

VOL. II. T

290 FBANCB BEFORE THE

It ia only too easy to prove that tliey are distiirted or s
lated Ijy all tlie laws it has itself adopted or enjoined.

The same ohservation may he made upon the second r
of the Ahh^ Chauvelin, the one in which he treats o
morality of the Jesuits. The accusations, in detail, are"
numerous, warm, sometimes bold, often not to he refiitedj it
is Pascal in parliamentary elyle — Pascal, hut with more erudi-
tion, and sometimes with almost as much wit. But in that
heap of far-fetched crimes hrought forward by the author,
the real crime, the crime of every day and every moment,
the fiindamental crime of the Jesuits, that to which the
wisest and most virtuous as well as the most intriguing and
absurd among them contribute, namely — the weakening' of
moral principle — the annihilation of free-will, and all really
great motives of action, that crime is scarcely touched upon.

This delect, it is trae, had rather promoted than injured
the aucccsB of the report. Had Chauvelin gone deeper in hia
views, had he manifested more Chi'istian indignation at m^M
antichristian code of morality, he would have been l4^H
understood in a century so superficial, and in which tha^|
was HO little Christianity. His revelations required to havg^
the attraction of scandal ; his statement to be suited to take
its place with the last novel on the toilets of women of
fashion. This species of success had not failed liim ; from
one end of France to the other nothing was talked of but
him and his memorial ; from one end of France to the other —
for is it not always the case in France that the very persons
who are flattered the most, are a little laughed at ?— ~

lines were repeated, which had been found one morning ;
the walls of the Palais de Justice —

^crthrow it, was, then, the object which v

TRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGIIEHOTS. 291

to be avowed. That which the boldest had at first con-
ceived in secret, the most timid began to speak of boldly.
From that moment, it waa no longer the cause of the Jesuits
alone. Royalty was cited with them to the bar of the Parlia-
ment.

It was from the crown, indeed, that the Society had re-
eeived the sanction to exist in France. The Parliaments, as
tourta of justice, had incontestably jurisdiotion over indivi-
!. That of Paris had power, in a civil trial, to condemn
&e Society as a body, and the sentence, though wrong, waa
rtiU legal. But to dissolve the order, was to undo what kings
lad made ; it was usurping the king's place.

Louis XV. had felt this. He had even shown on this
occasion one of his rare impalses of energy and dignity. In
spite of the Duka de Choiseul, in spito of Madame de Pom-
padour, he had sent orders to the Parliament, on the 10th of
■August, to suspend for a year the inquiry just commenced.

The Parliament, encouraged by the Duke da Choiseul, at
-first refiised to register this edict ; but afterwards registered
it evasively. " Shall he suspended for a year," said the de-
cree, " to make any enactment in reference to the said insti-
■tation hy decrees other than those in regard to which the oaths
'vfthe Court, its attachment to our sovereign lord the king, and
<ita respect for public tranquillity, do riot allow of using delat/ or
adjournment." There was more than encroachment in this ;
it was almost ironical. Bat the will of the king never was
enforced two days together. He said no more, and the Parlia-
Inent remained free to act.

Then, by solemn decree, the attorney-general was " de-
clared appellant as against abuse of power, in the case of
all the bulis, briefs, and apostolical letters, concerning the
priests and scholars of the Society, calling itself the Society
i«f JeauB."

292 FRANCE BEFORE THE RETOLUTiON.

Thus while pretending to obey the king', they fell 1
Q]Xin the Pope. The question, instead of becoming n
eiunscribeil, was thus enlarged. It was no longer the 8
against the Church, but the Church against herself, tha'
Parliament pretended to have the mission of protecting.

From whom had it received that mission? Not from t
Crown, seeing that the king ordered them to suapend t
inijiiiry ; still less from the Church, seeing that the bisbo]
and the Pope, the legal organs of the Church, were notori
oubIj oq the Jesuits' side. Had it even received that mJssioi
from conscience and reason? The Parliament must the|
have commenced by breaking with the Church. 1
testant, on hia own private authority, attacks and condem
the Jeauitfl, he is consistent with himself and his j
pies ; but that a Eomaniat — for the question is still the si
ill the present day as in 1761 — that a Papist, we i
whiie remaining Papist, should consider himself juf
in blaming what thirty Popea have applauded, overthrow
ing what the body of biahopa unanimously support, noi
as then, against all, and in the face of all, is one of t"
atrangeat contradictions to which the human mind
ever been brought. Hence — for all inconsistent pontiotd
lead to violence and falsehood — so much injustice :
eanae where it waa possible to be severe without oes
to be just — hence so much calumny against an (
which, if less calumniated, and if attacked in the I
(if great principles, would have been more certainly ov«
thrown.

a commission appointed by the king was ■
its side, the constitutions of the Jeauita.
i XV. had hoped the conclusions would be i
For an instant he believed them to be ao, :'
Qned to demanding some modifications i

Meanwhile
examining, on
Baid that Loui
their favour.

FRfBaTH, mPIDELB, A.IID HUGtlENOTB.

statutefl, particularly in what related to the aulhority exer-
cised hj the General throughout the kingdom. But the
whole order was nnanimouB in refusing all changes.

" SiiU ut sunt, aut nort smf," the General had said long be-
fore ; " si'nl ut sunt, aut non sint," repeated all who had takeji
Loyola's oaths, from China to Eome, from Eome to the
deserts of America. Their motive of action, which was
considered as obstinacy by some, and by others a noble firm-
ness, was perhaps neither so elevated nor so low as has been
believed. It was plain good sense. They saw that the
animosity against them was too tenacious to admit of their
hoping to extricate themselves by a few concessions ; besides,
in a body ho closely bound together, there can be no slight
> more than, in aa arched roof, any stones can
fKd without danger.

Finally, upon the advice of the comraiKsioners, the king
liod consulted the clergy, and on the 30th of November, fif^-
one prelates had assembled at Paris. Although the result of
thek deliberations was not as yet known, there was no donbt
but that their decision would be in fitvour of tlie Jesuits. It
was known beforehand that five or six in all would demand
the modification of the statutes, which did indeed happen,
and that one only, M. de Fit^-Jajnea, Bishop of Soissons,
would vote for the suiipression of the order.

But the very day after the bishops had assembled to
absolve, another voice arose to condemn the order. It was
at Hennea. It was there that the man whom we have heard
saying to Chauvelin, nearly eighteen niouthe before, " When
shall we begin?" sat as attorney-general of the Parliajnent
of Brittany. Chauvclin had begun: his friend followed in
his steps. La Chalotais had succeeded in gaining over those
who distrusted Chanvelin's violence. Tliese two names were
henceforth inseparable in the admiration of the public, and

niAHCE BEFORE THE KETOLCTtOtT.

the hatred of those whom thoy had attacked. But then,
instead of presemng that silence, which, in the midst of bo
many attacks, invested them with the digiuty of misfortnne,
the Jesuits broke it on the 19th of December, by a nuLDiiest
which could hut contrLbute to their rnin.

In answer to fanr questions which the king had addressed
to the bishops respecting them, they declared : — That they
ftdly recognised the temporal independence of kings, the in-
violability of their persons, the indissoluble nature of the oaths
that bind subjects to sovereigns ; that they would teach, in
private as well as in public, the four Gailican articles of 1683;
that they allowed to the bisliops the same jurisdiction over
them as over aJl the other orders ; lastly, that jf the General
were to enforce upon them anything contrary to these de-
clarations, they would refuse to obey.

Their enemies had here, in a tew words, what they conld
have most wished for to make use of against them : peijnry
and falsehood. We say perjury, for it was evident that to
suppose occasions on which they would not obey, was to
declare a vow of obedience so positive as theirs, a false oath.
We add falsehood, and this was still more evident. What
they here promised to teach, was the reverse of what they
had always been seen to believe, of what they had taught,
not always, it is true, but wherever they could. The Jesuits
were not and could not be sincere, in pretending to submit
to the decisions of 1G82 — the source of perpetual grief to the
Popes. It is to be observed, likewise, that they did not pro-
mise to admit, but only to teach them — a suhterftige which
did not come in amiss to the support of the accusation against
them, on the points of mental reservation and comprtmuBe
with heaven.

This publication was destined to mark the beginning of
their defeat. Very soon afterwards, they could see the effects

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 295

of it. It deprived them, among people of the world, of their
most respectable friends ; it wounded, in the Church, all who
were sincerely and openly ultramontane. They could be
represented, without calumny now, as ready to betray all,
when their interest should require it.

Such, then, at the close of 1761, was the state of the great
question at issue. The hand of God, hidden beneath the
injustice of man, lay heavily upon the Jesuits, Conscience
and reaaon, which they had trodden under foot, were rising
up against them, imbittered, perverted, ready to stain them-
selves with the very perfidy with which they reproached the
Society, in order to bring it down. The magistracy, blinded
by party spirit, gained popularity at their expense ; the king
saw the danger, was afraid for a moment, and then fell asleep
again.

The real object of all this was to be sought neither in the
legal statements of one party, nor in the replies of the other.
Like the cat in the fable, the Parliament drew the chestnuts
out of the fire,* but more powerful persons were the gainers.
The Encyclopaedia quietly looked on, and laughed. Let the
Jesuits fall beneath the blows of the Jansenists ; the Jan-
senists afterwards will fall under blows enough. Such was
the wish and hope, and henceforward the certainty of all the
enemies of religion. From the very commencement of the
struggle, Voltaire writes that he should like to see all the
Jansenists thrown into the sea, " each with a Jesuit about
his neck." As the quarrel grows warmer, he conies back
upon this charitable wish ; he embellishes it with poetical
varieties. Diderot had spoken of strangling the last king
with the intestines of the last priest. Voltaire is jealous of
this coarse idea, and borrows it. " Could not a modest and

* See La Fontaine's Fable of the Monkey and the Gat. Book ix. Fab. 17.

■29B

FRANCE BEPORE TBE KETOI.UTION.

obliging; propoBul," ho writes U> Helvetius,* "to strangle tbsl
last of the Jeauita with the intestiuea of the last of the Jag
seniats, bring fhiDgs to a settlement?" Elsewhere, -I- '
should die content," says he, " if I saw the Jnnsenists i
Molinists destroying each other." And elsewhere again, d
" Never was a more favourablQ time for cnltivating the Iiord'a
vineyard. Our enemies are deetroying each other. It is h^
US to fire upon these wild beasts, while they are biting e
other, and we can take aim at our case." D'Alembert is lea
picturesriue ; he is only coarse, ae he was wherever he ci
venture to be bo. " The Parliament," he wrilee to Voltaire,5
" is engaged in deadly strife with the Jesuits, and Paris ii
more occupied with this than with the war in Oemianyiil
As for me, who like neither the fanatics of the Parliament
nor the fanatics of St. Ignatius, all I wish them is, that they
may destroy one another. Philosophy is perhaps on the eve of
being aven^d of the Jesuits. Let us Iwpe that the destmo*
tion of the Jesuitical canaille will draw after it the destruction
of the Jansenist, and the intolerant canaille likewise."

But the intolerant canaille had yet to make its last efTcvts.
Let us return to Toulouse, where it was specially at work.
The Parliaments had to compensate to God and to the Pope
for their evil doings against the soldiers of the Church.

We left Rabant at Pont- de- Mont vert, at RebouVe honse.
When the search had ceased, and the sentinels were removec
he went away. He was once more at Toulouse, where ]
continued to direct, unseen, all the efforts tried on behalf q
the pastor Rochette, the brothers Grenier, and the Cal
family. Ilia Calumny Confounded, which was just printe
waa not yet in circulation.

I JU1UIU7 2s, int.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 297

" Will you believe me ?" said his friend M. de la Salle, who
kept him acquainted day by day with what passed at the
Parliament. " Do not distribute that writing. The more
I read it, the more I think that it must be kept for calmer
times."

" The plea after the condemnation ?"

" The condemnation is not yet pronounced."

" It is going to be pronounced."

" I fear so ; still, all hope is not yet lost. If your writing
is made public, condemnation is almost certain."

" Have you found one single word in it at which those
gentlemen could reasonably be offended?"

" No ; not reasonably — ^but what does that signify ? They
will only be the more irritated. What will offend them in
the memorial is not this or that passage — it is the whole, fix)m
the first to the last word. Arguments shock sometimes more
than abuse. What can be more healing than oil ? yet only
try to throw it upon the fire."

" And you think they are come to that?"

** I no longer think it ; I am sure of it. If you had only
heard them to-day ! Never did passion in some, and weak-
ness in others, show themselves more scandalously. M. de
Bonrepos,* as it seems, would consider himself dishonoured,
ruined, if he did not obtain the blood he is asking for. These
two trials have become his business ; the object of his life.
He no longer thinks ; he will not think. He goes headlong
to the charge, like the soldier who need not trouble himself
whether the war be just or unjust."

" I see pretty well, after that, that you have not transmitted
my request to him."

" You are mistaken."

"Well?"

* The attomey-generaL

298 PRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

" He grants it."

" Why did not you tell me ?"

" I hoped you would say no more about it."

"Why?"

" Believe me. Do not go to that prison."

" Do you distrust him?"

" No ; he is violent, but upright."

" Well then"—

" You might be recognised by some subordinate, who would
think he was doing right in arresting you."

" If I only went where I was sure of not being arrested,
where should I go?"

" So, you will go, then?"

"Yes. It shall not be said that my brethren reckoned
upon me in vain, to prepare them for death."

" Well, go. Here is the note which will procure your ad-
mission — the name is left blank — ^put what you please, not
Tuahar^ however, for everybody begins to know it. As to
your pamphlet, what do you decide upon?"

" Nothing as yet. I shall see what our prisoners think of
it."

PBIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 299

CHAPTER XV.

It was the first of January 1762.

How solemn a day is that on which a year begins I solemn
for him who hopes to see the end of the year ; but far more
so for him who knows that he shall not see it I

The three brothers, and the minister, who were expecting
their sentence from day to day, knew — ^they could doubt it no
longer — that the latter was their case. K they were surprised
at anything, it was at being still alive, for, from the rate at
which their trial had proceeded at first, they had not imagined
that they should be made to taste death so long in the forma-
lities attendant upon it.

For some weeks past they had been allowed to see each
other. Every day they passed some hours together. They .
had made for themselves a world within those walls, in which
peace, friendship, and faith, now reigned uninterruptedly.
They had so entirely committed their cause to Gkxi, as to have
almost forgotten that their fate depended likewise on men.

That day they had obtained permission to be together since
the morning. They had embraced in silence, and shed in secret
the tears which they had concealed from each other. The
first day of the last year of their lives 1 and the eldest of them
was not thirty years of age I Their comforter, Rochette, was
not twenty-six 1

Towards noon, however, they recovered their usual spirits.
They had seated themselves, almost cheerfully, round their

soo

XMAIXX BBPOKE THB fiETOLDTiC«.

humble table, where some disheB appeored bi

out their priBon. Unknown friends had thought of the dinueii

of the prisoners.

" Quite a feast," said the minister.

" I almost expected it," added one of the brothers. " This i^
a season when friends are remembered."

" Yes," said t!ie eldest ; " those whose sei-vicea are needed j
as for us, from whom nothing is espected" —

" Nothing is expected from us, brother?"

" What would you have expected, my child ?

" A noble death 1"

" Right, brother, right I you will not he the one to di*
appoint the expectation."

It was thus that the thought, to which they v
accustomed, came hack under every possible form. The a
resignation was modified in them, according to the diftereace
of their characters. The eldest was a serious man, natnrallj
depressed, almost as much the stoic as the Christian. The
youngest, on the contrary, had that happy light- heartediu
which is compatible with the deepest feeling and most si
thought. He was about twenty, but always seemed i
younger or older than the expression of
yoniiger, from his tone of voice, which was that of a
and older, from his firmnesa, which was that of a man inuie
to tiial, and of a Christian whose strength is in Ood.

Lastly, with the other brother, both philosophy and faith,
more thorougidy blended, formed a chai'acter more regularly
Christian. It was neither the unmoved nature of the one,
nor the youthful ardour of the other. He seitbei braved nor
despised trial ; he accepted it. He was particularly happy
in the society of the minister, whose state of mind was coxtr
genial to his own. Besides, they were of the same age, an('
had known each other from childhood. The aimilarity i

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 801

their fate appeared to them an invitation from heaven to a
still closer union of spirit.

What conformity of character had done for them, diversity
of character had done for the other two. The eldest and
youngest, of whom it might have been thought that they
never could live together, were never apart. The one seemed
weary of the vivacity of the other, and the latter felt a de-
gree of constraint from the gravity of the former ; but each
felt the need of having his own deficiencies supplied by his
friend, and of blending their two minds into one, while each
retained his own individuality.

They were now all four seated at table, and for the first
time they had been left alone. They bad often solicited it,
but in vain. A jailer had been present at all their inter-
views.

** Alone I " said Jean de Lourmade,* when he observed this
favour. " Ah I gentlemen, people are beginning to do as we
please. It would seem that we are indeed in bad case.''

" Alone I" said Jean de Sarradou ; " and with knives too I
the jailer pretended that it was never done."

^* It is to me that you owe that,'' said the minister. ^' I
asked him if we looked like people who would commit suicide,
and he understood that the precautiou was perfectly needless
as regarded us."

" These people," resumed one of the brothers, " ought, one
would think, themselves to be astonished at the confidence
they have in us. And I might say the same thing of the
judges that I do of the jailers. Have you observed the tone
in which they speak to us ? It is almost respectful. It seems
to me, that if I had to try people suffering for their religion,

* The youngest They had, accordhig to the enstom of the ooontry, three different
names. The name of the eldest was Grenier, sieor de Oommel ; the name of the second
was Grenier, dear de SMradoo.

302 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

and that these people excited such feelings in me, in spite of
myselfi I could hardly detest their faith."

" That, on the contrary," said Rochette, " is the very thing
that they cannot forgive us, because it is an argument which
is unanswerable. In vain they oppress us ; they have not
degraded us. Our people remain superior to their people."

" And our clergy to their clergy," interrupted de Commel.

"Yes, thank Godl" resumed the minister. "The Refor-
mation appeared as a light — ^it has been such."

" And will stni be one," said the brothers.

" And happy, my friends, happy those who shall have held
up that light steadfastly on high."

" As we shall hold it up on the scaffold."

"God grant it I"

They changed the conversation.

" Father Bourges has not come for two days," said the
minister.

Father Bourges was the appointed converter of the Protest-
ant prisoners.

" We saw him yesterday," said de Commel.

" I never saw him more embarrassed than the day before
yesterday," resumed Rochette.

" It is on that account, probably, that he leaves you alone."

" Did he hope to succeed better with you ?"

" If he did," said Jean de Lourmade, " he might have seen
that he was mistaken."

" Come, Jean," said the eldest, " relate your dispute to
us."

" You were present, brother."

" I know ; but M. Rochette was not."

The grave elder brother was delighted to show how the
witty younger one had come off with a heavy Dominican.

" We are listening," said Rochette.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 303

" On one condition," resumed Jean. " After my dispute, we
must have yours."

" We shall see. Begin."

" The dear man arrived, then, with his protuberant" —

" Jean," said the eldest, severely, " if you begin to jest, I
shall go away."

" How, my poor brother ? The door is double locked. Ah !
if I had but to jest to send you far, far away I " He sighed.
" But to return," resumed he. " Father Bourges came yester-
day as usual, mild in words, inexorable as to dogmas. ^ Well,
my child,' said he, ^ are you going to end as you began this
year, in which Gkxi has offered you so many means of grace ?
1 should not have thought that on St. Silvester's day' " —

" ' What day is St. Silvester's day, sir ?* said I. Observe,
that I knew very well.

" * St. Silvester's day, my child, is the 31st of December,
the festival of a great saint— of a Pope.'

" * All the Popes are saints.'

" * We never said that.'

" ' Do you not call them all Your Holiness .'*

" * A title— a form.'

"'Yes,butinfambility?'

^^ *' Infallibility, my child, is quite another thing. From the
moment that this privilege was attached to the see of Bome,
it was necessary that all' —

^' ' It was necessary, indeed, that the system might not fall
to pieces. But when an Alexander VI. ' —

" ' There it is ! — always Alexander VI.'

" ' You well know that it is not from the impossibility of
naming others.'

" ' No, unfortunately. But why always the worst ? Do
you see anything like it in the present day ? The present
Pope, Clement XIII.'—

fVASCK BSVOSS TBE BEVOUTTKMI.

" ' Ib better — agreeil ; but he might be woraa, though that
would be difficult, and yet utill be Pope, and you still be
obliged to believe — to profess tliat the Holy Spirit Bpofae by
bis mouth.'

"'Of what use is it to suppose?'

" ' You do not wish me lo make suppositions. Let me
atate facts, then, and do not prevent me from naming Alex-
ander VI. Whether there miiy have been ten popes as Lad as
he, or only one, or a hundred ; whether there may be simi-
lar popes in future, or not, what does it matter? You are
neither more nor less obliged to maintain that God has
spoken and might speak again by the mouth of abominable

" ' His wayt are not our Kays, says the Scripture. He
has done many other things that we ehould be tempted to
consider as improbable and immoral' —

" ' Doubtless ; but before we consider those things good
which seem had to us, we have a right to be sure that they
proceed from him. It is not merely a right, it is a duty ; for
it would be impiety to lay upon him all that ambition or igno-
rance may hjivo attributed to him. Thus,' I added, ' choose,
sir ; either allow us to speak of the bad popes, and of the mon-
atrous improbability of a system according to which they are
necessarily as infaUible as the best, or let us go to the bottoto
of (he question, and see whether the best have really bepn
more infallible than the others.'

" ' Tu es Petnis, et super hanc petram' —

" ' There it is 1 I may siiy too, as you did just now, speak-
ing of Alexander VI.'

"' ru es Pelrus'^

" ' Oh 1 if you please, let us set aside words. These are, I
know, calculated to produce a great eEFect upon those who
only know as mach of the Scriptures as you are pleased to

«

'1

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 305

tell them ; but with us, you are aware, who know them by
heart' —

'^ ' Tou have the book ; you have not the light which alone
enables us to read it.'

" * And what is that light V

" * Tradition.'

'^ ^ Stop a moment. In this question it is precisely to tra-
dition that I am going to appeal.'

" * I should be curious' —

" ' To tradition — ^yes, sir ; to the oldest, be it understood,
and to the surest.'

"'Which is—?*

• " ' The Scriptures themselves. It is to them, to the history
of the thirty or thirty-five first years of the Church that it is
natural, one would think, to have recourse for an explanation
of these words. Well, then, will you allow me, without going
beyond that period, to ask you two or three very simple
questions?'

" Father Bourges is no friend to simple questions ; he has
a wonderful talent for complicating them, in general. I took
my measures, therefore, and was determined to make him
answer yes or no,

" * Do so, my son,' said he, * do so.'

" * You quote words,' resumed I ; ' it is upon words that I
shall question you first. Could you point out to me, in the
New Testament, one passage where St. Peter is called the
head of the Church?'

" * What does it signify, provided he was such?'

" ' That is another question ; we shall come to it. I told
you beforehand that I should begin by words. Are those of
head of the Churchy I repeat, used in speaking of St. Peter?'

" * No,' said he.

" * And head of the Apostles V pursued I.

VOL. II. u

"'No,'

" ' Well, sir, from those two questions to which you hav«.l
Just answered no, I draw a third. Can we reasonahly auppose
that the book of Acts, the Epistles — in a word, tliat all the
New Testament, would not once have given St. Peter a title
that belonged to him ? And whilst you cannot write a
a line about his pretended succcEsor, without being ohliged U
bring forward his chiiraoter of head of the Church, a vholfj
Tolnmo has been written without this title once coming dim
the pen of its authors I'

" ' We do not know,' he objected, ' whether we have a
that the apostles have written.'

" ' Possibly,' I resumed ; ' hut come now, in yonr (
mind and conscience, can you believe that what we do posseefl
is BO short as that they may not have been able, supposing SU
Peter to be head of the Church, ever to give him that name 3
that St. Paul should have written to the Romans, and that >;
great length, without even naming him ? that the eame St,l
Paul should have addressed advice and directions of all kinds
to so many churches, without telling them a word of any tie
whatever, established, or to be eBtablished, between them and
St. Peter, or tlie succesaors of St Peter ? No, sir, no t Befoi^ ■
Grod, laying your hand upon your conscience, you will n^
say get.'

" His embarrassment was visible. I may even say, wit^
perfect truth, that I never met with a Eomanist bold enougtt
to face the question thus stated. The more they have miiim
tained to you that there must be a head, that there is one
that there always has been one — the more difficult it will b
to explain why the famous Tu cs Petrus has n
in the writings of the apostles."

"You might have added," said the minister, "that the 2
es Petnu itself is only to be read in one of the Gospela.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 307

these words had, in the eyes of the apostles, the importance
since attached to them, how can we explain their omission by
three out of the four historians of Jesus Christ V^

" That is, indeed, striking," said Jean de Lounnade. " I
never observed that, and I think it has escaped our con-
troversialists. What a pity I did not know that yesterday I
But — ^bah I what should I have gained by it ? Those people
are so completely proof against all evidence, that there is no-
thing more to be gained by ten arguments than by one.

" Meanwhile, he answered me nothing, or almost nothing,
for I took care only to bring forward facts, and those unan-
swerable ones. I confused him with questions, short and direct,
from which it was impossible to turn aside. * Do you remem-
ber,' said I, for instance, * a case in which one apostle was
reproved by another?'

" ' Yes,' said he.

" ' And the apostle reproved was — ?'

« t Waa— St. Peter.'

u 4 Yejy good. And at what period, if you please ?'

" ' I do not remember exactly.'

" * The date is in the Epistle to the Galatians. It was four-
teen years — ^fourteen years, sir — after St. Paul's first journey
to Jerusalem — that is to say, at a period when Christians and
churches were beginning to be seen everywhere, and when
the primacy of St. Peter had had a thousand opportunities of
being exercised, even in spite of himself ; it was then that St.
Paul says he had " withstood him to the face, because he was
to be blamed." Does he even excuse himself for having with-
stood the head of the Church ? No ; neither there nor else-
where is there one word, one syllable which indicates that St.
Paul regarded himself, or was regarded as inferior to St.
Peter.' I insisted still longer," pursued Jean de Lounnade,
" on this negative side of our arguments against Rome. The

308 FBAKCB BEFOBS TE£ SEVOLimOK.

more improbabilities I enumerated, the more came into
mind. I never bave understood iiow a conscientiouB mttn did*
not feel himself crushed by the silence of the Epistles upon
the prerog^atives of St. Peter, by the complete independence
of the other apostles in regard to him — in short, by the ah^
Rence of all appeal, and even all alluBion to any visible
whatever.

" The Father at last interrupted me every moment — '
tradition, but tradition,' said ho, as they all say. ' Tradition I
I replied. ' But, once again, here it is I here is that of the
first thirty years of the Church ; hero it is, written, authentic,
unchangeable ; and the best proof that it is not on your ndd
is, this eagcmeBS to titm from it continually, to I know not
what other tradition, which begins no one knows when.'

" ' It begins from the apostles,' said he.

" I Haw clearly, by these words, even if I had not known Ita
before, how thick a bandage has been put upon the eyes OJQ
our adversaries by their hopeless position. What happened.
to me with poor Father Bonrges, happens to ns every day
with the generality of Romanists. They would not venture
to tell you that St. Paul had spoken of the Pope ; they give
np explaining to yon how he can have written, cither to the
faithful at Rome, or from Rome itself to otiier believers, with-
out mentioning any head whatever, without naming St. Peteor
otherwise than in two or three narratives ; they will allow, in
short (for it is allowing it), that tiousands of pastors have
])een establisljed, thousands of churches founded, before a
iiead, a centre, was spoken of; and yet they will begin
to cite to you, as coming straight from those very apoatleBj.
the very traditions of which they have acknowledged that
apostolic times offer no traces.

" He returned to the point so candidly, that I
help laughing. ' I see plainly,' said I, ' that I am Ul

PRtEBTB, INFIDELB, AND BVOHENOTS. ^09

to fill a bag that is fiill of lioles. I have proved to you twenty
difBculties, twenty imposaibilitiee. You allow the greater part
of them, and yet you eontinne, the moment after, as if I had
said nothing, bm if you had allowed oothing. I should have
much more to aay to you, but of what use would it be ? I
should have asked you, in particular, where you go for Lhe
twenty-five years that your tradition assigna to the epiBcopate
of St Peter?'

" ' We do not vouch for the five-ajid -twenty yeajs,' said
Father Bourges.

" ' Vouch for four or five of them,' resumed I, ' and still I
defy you to prove it. You will not find three, nor even two,
against whicli there is nothing to be said.' I set about pro-
ducing to him, following step by step the chronology of tile
Acta, all the dates I could find in contradiction to the idea of
the residence of St. Peter at Rome. He wished to stop me at
\ aome of them, which are not quite certain, according to him,
and which cannot, indeed, be positively fixed. ' But,' said 1,
' if all our dates were inexact, you would not have gained a
step by it. At the Tery utmost, you may come, by separating
them a little more, to find a year or two during which St.
Peter may possibly have travelled into Italy ; it still remains
to be proved bow this jimrney s-hould have left no trace in
what 8t. Paul writes to the Romans, or io what he writes
Q Rome to other churches. But let us stop,' pursued I ;
*it is clear that we should never come to a conclusion.'

' Let us stop, since you wish it,' said he. ' So long as
God shall not have opened your eyes' —

"'May He open them,' said I, 'if they are closed; but the
objections I have just made to you, sir, are mere arithmetic.
In presence of such arguments, be who needs to be enlight-
ened, is, I think, the one who resista, and not tbe one who

310

r&ANOS BEFOEE TBX KBVOLCTION.

i laden with J

" He left me. — It is your turn now, pastor,"
" Our discussion, " said Eo-chette, " turned upon a Bimilar
subject. Por a, long time past he hsA fallen back incessantly
upon the olijection, that I had no right to call myself a minis-
ter, and that the apostolic succession, preserred in his Church,
was the only source of all spiritual power. I hitd resolved, if
he returned to it, to take the offensive side of the argument.
I intended making him confess how very f
rights of the Church of Rome, even taking them up t
own ground, are from being as clear as
" The day before yesterday, I saw 1

" ' Are those books for me?' said I.

" ' For you ? No ; against you.'

" ' Is the Bible among them ?'

" ' No.'

" ' Ah !' resumed I, laughiu
as a good omen. The Bible ii

" ' Who tflld you so ?'

" ' You — since you bai
what are they about?'

" ' The priesthood — a
Church ' —

" ' Sir,' said I, ' spare me this language. It would ill [
become you to use those exiiggerated expressions that yon '
employ in the pulpit to render us odious or ridiculous, to a
man about to die for having been a minister, and having

' tiiat is a no which I accept

e not brought it. But let us see

J outrageously perverted in your 1

" ' Well,' said he, ' let ua be calm, it is my wish. Here 1% J
in the first instance' —

" ' Stop,' said I. 'You know that I never consent to qoitl
my ground — the Scriptures — unless I am forced, to it ; fbroedf 1
of course, by sufficient reasons. I do not know what you &M 1

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 31!

going to tell me or quote to me ; but I do not need to know.
Answer me first'—

« 'Why first?' said he.

** ' Because our objections, drawn from Scripture, have
neceflsarily precedence over year argumente, drawn from tea.
dition or from the Fathers.'

** He closed his book. It was, I think, St. Ambrose.

" * Nothing can be more completely one,' resumed I ; * no-
thing can be more firmly bound together than your hierarchy.
One supreme head, the source of all power; under him,
bishops who exist by him atone ; under the bishops, priests,
who exist by the bishops alone. From the Pope to the vil-
lage priest, from the village priest to the Pope, the line is
straight, visible, palpable.

" ' Well, the clearer the system apparently, the more strik-
ing are the obscurities which it is found to contain, on a near
inspection. The straighter the chain, and the more tightly
drawn, the better can be seen where links are wanting.

" * In the first place, let me ask you whether you are Gal-
lican or Ultramontane ?'

"*What does it signify?* said he sharply. *We all re-
cognise the supreme authority of the Holy See ; that is
enough.'

" * Yes ; but how do you reco^ise it ? I well know that
the two parties avoid going deeply into this point : they
know that they could not do it without raising the most dan-
gerous quarrels. All, you say, acknowledge the authority of
the Holy See ; but, I repeat, how ? To the Ullramontanist,
the Pope is the necessary and indispensable head of the hier-
archy and the Church : not only does all proceed from him, but
can proceed from him alone. To the Gallican, on the con-
trary, if he is now and in reality the head of the Church, he
is not so indispensably. It is the Church herself tiiat has

312 FBAKCB BEPORE THE REVOLUTION,

treated him prince of priestB ; it is she who, for the sake of
order, has made him the BUpreme dispenser of the powers of
which she alone is the source. In a word, according as you
are either Ultramontane or GSallicati, the Pope, with you, will
be Pope hy divine right, or only by human and ecclesiasticnl
right. Once more, which are ymi ? '

" It was all in vain ; he would not commit himBelt His
distinctions, his bats, his ife, were enoagh to excite the envy
of a Jesuit,

" ' Weil,' resumed I, ' ainoe you will not allow me to know
which of the two you are, allow me to attack both.

" ' The Galilean is evidently more consistent with higtcay.
Whatever opuiion may be hold as to the mutual relations
subsisting between the Bishop of Home and those of the other
Churches, in the fourth and filth centuries, it is incontestable
that the latter did not admit what has been since called the
pc^l institution. You see them elected, now hy the people,
now by the clergy, elsewhere by the clergy and people
unitedly ; everywhere, in short, ordained and installed by
other bishops ; but you cannot even try to show me say
trace whatever of the necessity of a commission sent from
Rome to the latter, in onler to empower them to do this.
Observe that I have referred to a period when Eorae was be-
ginning to be the centre of the Church. U these traces are
wanting in the foiirth and fifth centuries, what will it be in
the third and second ? What would have been the astonish-?
ment of the faithful of those times, if any one had presumed
to tell them that their pastors were false pastors, because
their powers did not emanate from the Bishop of Rome I

" ' This is, however, the system that the Ultramontanirt is
obliged to support ; fur if there has existed anywhere a, aing^le
generation of legitimate pastors, though not instituted by Si,
Peter or his euccesaois, the chain is broken, and their leglti-

1

PBIESTS, WnDKLB, AND ECGUEKOTS. 313

macy can exist independently of ths Pope. I say one gene-
ration, one Bingle generation. Now, count, if you dare, count
how many there have been in the fijur or five centuries of
which I speak. Or, if you choose to he Ultramontane, deny
Blot out all these centuries. Say that St. Paul was a
usurper, a schismatic, when he estahlished bo many pastors,
BO many bkhops, to speak as you do, on his own authority, —
and then, only then, yoti can maintain that the Roman priest-
hood is a complete and logical whole.

' ' Although more rational in a historical point of view,
the Gallican ideas are still farther removed from forming, on
this question, a Bystem of some solidity or some value.

' ' In the first place, and this is no small matter, their
syBtcra is directly opposed to that which the Popes have
always professed. At Rome, you know that there is no
opinion less acceptahle than that which makes the papa<:y an
office instituted by the Church, accountable to this Church,
consequently inferior to the Church. The Popes have never
been satisfied to be acknowledged in reality as the beads of
the Christian world ; they have never failed, when they had
courage and opportunity, to condemn those who did not grant
that they posseseed a divine right, an original and neces-
Eary supremacy. The Gallican who anathematizes us is
therefore not less at variance with the Pope on this point
than with us.

' ' We might even say that he differs from him more ; for in
fact, from the moment that you give up supporting the pre-
sent system as bearing date from the early days of the Church,
n what do you differ from us ? It is only a question of dis-
ipline. You prefer one form, and we another, that is all.
But between you and the Pope, between the Gallican and the
Ultramontane, there is more. It is in the name of God him-
self, it is as a doctrine, that the Pope teaches his supremacy ;

14

FRiKOB BEFORS THB

is therefore, in bis sight, a doctrine that you tl<
■at us with the greatest severity, who only diffei
ecclesiastical matters ; and you know that you are your-
selves condemned hy your spiritual head, on what is a point
of faith with him 1 In whose name, then, do you come aiul
teU ns that we have perverted {that is your expression) tli»
Christian priesthood P In the name of the Pope ? Begins
then, by agreeing with him ; for, according to him, you like*
n-iae pervert it. In the name of the Church ? But he is it*
only official and legitimate ocgan. Besides, the Church has
never formally pronounced a decision upon these questions,
All that related to the priesthood, to the papacy, considered'
as the source of spiritual power, to its connexion with the
episcopacy, to the origin of the present system, was, aftef
lengthened debates, carefully eluded in the decrees of ths'
Council of Treut.'

" Such is the summary," pnrBued Eochette, " of my reply
to Father Bourges. If I have not repeated to you all the
objections he tried to make to me, it is because he did not
overturn — how could he ? — a single one of the facts that I
brought forward. These facts subsisting, what becomes of
the subtleties by which our opponents would endeavon
evade the consequences deducible from them ? Set all
aside, Father Bourges is, however, an upright man. He
not Ultramontane, for he did not maintain the absolute righlA
of the popes ; he is not Galilean, for he appeared pIcMed vvth
what I said of the inconsistencies and difGcnlties of OttUlcan-
isra. What ia he? He is, I believe, what the generality of
sincere priests are, — uncertain, wavering, scandalized at the
pretensions of Eome, alarmed, on the other hand, at the i\-
logical and false position into which every Romanist thrown,
himself who is not completely subject to her; they close then
eyes, they divert their minds, they endeavour

« of ^^
r t«.^l
thi^H

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 315

thenibelves, by attacking us, that they are still the friends
and champions of the Pope."

Bochette had proceeded thus far, when the jailer entered.

" Well, gentlemen," said he, " I hope you will not
complain to-day ; I think you have been left alone long
enough."

" Thank you," said the prisoners. " It has been indeed a
good day."

'^ It is not ended yet," resumed the man.

" We hope so."

" What if it were to end still better than it began ? If one
of your friends " —

" Who ?" said they. " It is not the day for visits."

" Permission from a high quarter."

" Some converter, then?"

" He would rather require one for himself."

"Who told you so?"

" His looks."

" Indeed I His name is — ? "

" M. Theo, merchant."

"Theo," said Bochette; '^Theo — an old friend indeed.
He will — ^be — ^welcome."

Bochette appeared calm, and yet his voice trembled.

" Th6o," sAid he, as the jailer went out, " Th6o, my friends,
do you not know that it is one of Ms surnames ? It is he —
himself "-r—

Babaut entered, accompanied by a young man. The
door closed upon them. Bochette threw himself into his
arms. They remained long standing, shedding tears over
each other. The three brothers and the young man were
silent spectators of this long and mute embrace.

"It is you I" whispered Bochette at last. "You — ^you
here I Something tpld me — ^how could I believe it? — tdd

31fi raixcs, betobe the betoldtioit.

me — that I should not die without having embraced yotu
Thank you — thauk you."

" My 6on, my poor boq I " said Babaut.
priBMi, and perhaps soon to die. AjiJ somethiiig seemed to^
tell me, too, that I should see you again in this world. Aai'
I, at leaat, more fortunate than you, could ask
could come to you — and I ara here. Yes — I am here. YoUtl
had no need of me to teach you to be faithful. It is I — i
— who needed to see you, to learn of you to be faithful-
teach it to him."

Ab he said these words, disengaging himself from the era-
brace of the prisoner, he seized the hand of the young maot
who had remained near the door weeping.

" My son," said he, addressing him, " you wished yoar!
to accompany me ; you wished to see him — here he is, tbeib
You are about to enter upon the warfare ; he is about to lea'
it, by martyrdom. He is only five or sis years older thi
you, and he was one of our best labourers. You arrive as h«
is departing'. May his blood, my son, be a baptism of courage
and faith for you!"

The youDg man wished to throw himself on hie knees
before Hochette, but the latter prevented him. He eml
the son as he had embraced the &ther.

" How much grown you are, St. Etienne 1 " said he. " Qi
in stature ; grown also — for we have often heard you spoken
— in faith and in knowledge. You were but a child ; you ana
now a man. Yea, there can be no void in the ranks of Cbrist'B
army. One falls ; another fills his place. Tour father said
so, and he is right. But why should he give me as an ex-
ample, who has himself been mine I What have I done that
he has not done a thousand times? I am going to die
the real Bacrifice is not in that. To die once is much
than to be e^wsed to death for twenty years, ev&CY day

knees
)ken df^l

ch eaaio^^l
day an^^l

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 317

every hour. If God support me to the last, I shall certainly
he more calm on the way to death than I have often heen in
my journeys and my escapes."

Thus did Bochette express himself with that coolness
which is the highest degree of true courage. It was with
simplicity and sincerity that he descrihed martyrdom as an
easy thing, and declared that he felt too much was said of his
sacrifice.

^^ But enough has heen said of me," resumed he. '' Am I
the only one here threatened with death ? Here, dear hro-
ther, are those three friends, who may perhaps follow or pre-
cede me to the scaffold. Though martyrs for our faith, yet
they are going to be, at tiie same time, victims of a mistake
or a falsehood. I am to be condemned as a minister, and
such I am ; they are to be condemned as rebels, and such
they have not been."

Babaut drew near to the three brothers. He spoke to them
as he only could speak.

" Courage I " said he, " courage I God has not called you
to this trial without having laid up for you, in the treasures
of His mercy, all the strength you need. Ask it of Him, my
brethren, and He will bestow it. No — ^you have already
asked, and already received."

He then related all he had done on their behalf. He did
not conceal from them his fears ; he left; them under no delu-
sion as to the probable issue of the trial. But while he took
from them the hopes of life, he strengthened their detachment
from the world, and revived in their hearts the desire after
the joys of heaven. From time to time, the conversation was
interrupted by prayer. The whole interview was, as it were,
a hymn of praise to that Qod for whose cause they were
about to die.

" Why," said Bochette, " should we not sing one of Qjir

318 FRANCE BEFORE THE BEYOLUTION.

psalms ? Let us sing, my friends ; we are as well here as in
a church."

"Yes," said Babaut; "next to the singing beneath the
yault of heaven, there is no place more suitable for it than a
prison, for those who are there on account of their faith. Let
us sing — ^but can you venture ? we shall certainly be heard."

" They are accustomed to it."

"And allow it?"

" They cannot do otherwise, unless they were to stop our
mouths."

" Let us sing, then Ij"

With a voice which betrayed his emotion, he himself raised
the hundred and sixteenth psalm : —

*' My soul with gratefol thoughts of love

Entirely is possest^
Becauae Uie Lord Toachaafed to hear

The voice of my request.
Since He has now His ear inclined,

I never will despair ;
Bat Btill. in aH the straits of life^

To Him address my pray^."

All the other voices joined his at the same instant, and
hearts were joined to voices, and it was from the very depths
of those hearts that, instead of asking God for temporal de-
liverance, they thanked Him for a far higher deliverance.
Why should they have entreated Him to pluck them from the
hand of death, seeing He had already, as St. Paul says, taken
from death its sting, and from the grave its victory ?

'* When troubles seized my aching heart,
And anguish rack'd my breast ;

On God's almighty name I call'd
And thus to Him I pra/d—

Lord, I beseech Thee, save my soul.
With sorrows quite diamay'd.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AMD HUGUENOTS. 319

'* Then, free from pensive cares, my soul,
Besmne thy wonted rest ;
For God has wondrously to thee
His boonteoos love exprest"

But all at once they stopped. They had heard already,
between the verses, something like an echo. Now the sounds
were prolonged. The melody reached them feebly and con-
fusedly, but yet it was distinguishable. When they were
silent, and the high-vaulted roof no longer sent back the echo
of their own words, they seemed still to reach them, but as if
from beneath their feet.

The Galas family was below them.. They had heard and
answered; and all these spirits blended together, through
walls and ceiling, in one aspiration towards God.

830 FRANCE BEFOSB THE BEYOLUTION.

CHAPTER XVI.

The day was on the decline. A January son shed its last
pale rays through the barred windows.

" My friends," said Rabaut, " we must part. I hope I
shall see you again. I was told that I might return ; and
yet" — ^his voice trembled, and betrayed his rising tears.

" Gentlemen," said the jailer, returning, " another visitor,
who will give you less pleasure, perhaps, but" —

" I wager it is Father Bourges," said Jean.

" No, not he, but some one sent by him."

" Then it is all one. Is he a priest?"

" A priest."

"Let him^come in. In fact," added Lourmade, laughing
— ^for his careless gaiety, poor youth, never failed him — '* he
does not need our permission."

" Birds of prey catch the scent of death," said the eldest.

" They may very likely find life in us yet. The other has
been beaten ; he sends fresh troops."

"Hush!"

The priest came in. He was rather tall, thin, with a high
forehead, small eyes, his head slightly leaning to the left side
— one of those persons who seem as desirous to appear insig-
nificant as others to be imposing. However, had the twilight
permitted, it might have been easy to guess that this attitude
was not habitual to him. The man accustomed rather to rule
than to be humble, to threaten than to be polite, would at

FBIESTS, INFIDELS, AMD HUGUENOTS. 321

once have been recognised. He was, however, very polite,
as he approached the prisoners. Hat in hand, he bowed
with irreproachable grace.

" A Jesuit I" murmured Jean.

" Gentlemen," said he, " do not be surprised."

Babaut recognised the man by the voice. It was the Satan
of his Judas — the tempter of old Major d'Ambly — the man of
the red-hot tongs.

" Do not be surprised," said Father Chamay, " that I have
perhaps inconsiderately taken this opportunity of visiting you.
Father Bourgee, my friend, has the sole charge of your con-
sciences ; besides, he has. no need of me."

He told a lie. It was the Father himself who had begged
him to come to his assistance with these unhappy hardened
men, as he called them. The Jesuit had weighed all the
honour that might accrue to him from their conversion ; but
as it was not very probable, he would not appear to have
undertaken it on his own responsibility.

" Father Bourges," resumed he, " has spoken of you to me
with the most affectionate interest. You showed, he said,
a courage, a perseverance, worthy of a better cause. This is
what I chiefly wished to see, dear brethren, and — ^but you are
not alone?"

He had just observed Eabaut and his son. It will be
remembered that he did not know him by sight.

" M. Th6o, a merchant — one of our friends — ^and his son,"
said Bochette, hastily.

" One of your friends, and of the same religion, doubtless,"
said the Jesuit.

" Yes, sir," said Babaut.

The anxiety was great. The Jesuit appeared sincere in
his surprise ; but that was no reason for believing him to be
really surprised. He might have known of Babaut's pre-

VOL. II. X

322 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

sence there ; he might have people ready to seize the minister
at his orders, behind the door.

Rabaut was, as ever, the cahnest person there. " K he
knows of my being here," thought he, "his measures are
taken, and it is useless to try to escape from him. If he
knows nothing of it, he does not know me personally. Only,
I must not appear as if I wished to flee."

He offered him a chair. Chamay sat down, not without
a profound bow.

" Gentlemen," said he, " may I ask which of you is M.
Rochette?"

Rochette bowed.

" You are a good reasoner, sir, I am told," continued the
Jesuit.

" Did Father Bourges observe that?" asked Jean.

"He spoke to me of you also, sir," resumed Chamay,
addressing himself to the young man.

"Of me?"

" Of you. I have already perceived the animation — ^the
wit — ^that he ascribed to you."

" I am, indeed, quite confounded."

" Ah I my child, it was not to praise your talent — ^talent
has lost more souls than it has saved. Blessed are the
simple."

" Blessed Father Bourges I "

Chamay smiled, for whilst he condemned talent, he piqued
himself on possessing more than his brother priest. But he
immediately resumed his gravity.

" Yes," pursued he ; " blessed are the simple-minded ;
blessed are those who do not dispute. It is written, that
' God resisteth the proud, but giveth grace to the humble.'
Fear, then, to contend against Gtxi."

" God means you and your friends, does it not ?"

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 323

" It is the Church, my young friend, the Church, His be-
loved daughter, of whom I am myself but the very humble
child, and very unworthy minister/'

He bent his head with downcast eyes, and hands crossed
upon his breast.

" A great deal of humility at the service of great pride,"
said Jean.

" The Church uses her rights," resumed he, a little dis-
concerted ; " there is no pride in assuming privileges, when
they have been received from God. Infallibility" —

" Sir," interrupted Eabaut, " my friends have perhaps not
a week to live. Have you nothing better than these theo-
logical theses to offer them, even supposing them to be cor-
rect?"

" Let him alone, let him alone," said Rochette. ^''Martyr
means witness. Why should we not bear witness to our faith,
even to the end ? If these gentlemen are absolutely deter-
mined that the martyrdom shall be complete " —

" Ah I why do you speak of martyrdom ?" exclaimed Char-
nay, soothingly. " We who would give every drop of our
blood, that you would consent to live."

We have already seen that life was always offered to the
ministers on condition of abjuring. The same proposal had
been made to the three brothers.

" Better take us at once to death," resumed the minister,
" than offer us life at a price to which you know we will not
consent. We have said so often enough to Father Bourges,
from the very beginning ; we have even added, if we must
tell all, that the proposal appeared to us somewhat immoral.
To put people to death on account of their faith, is only
cruelty or folly ; but to place them between their conscience
and the scaffold — ^to offer, as the reward of a lie, the most
attractive of earthly possessions, life 1 — to urge unfortunate

i *

''W

41^

321 FBAUCE BEFORE THE

beings to ruia tliemBelves before God, and diBbonour them-
selves before men — tiiis is more cruel, more infamouB than
any dungeon ov suffering I 1 spealt now," added Rochette,
" of the thing and not of the men. I know that there are
many among you who belicTe they are only charitable in
offering us lil'e on condition of our abjuring. But that which
absolvee them in this case, is on the other baud one of the
most serioUB reproacbes that can be cast upon your Chaich.
It is she who has taught them to consider Ealvation aa
attached to the external prci-i'eeHiun of her worehip and her
dogmas ; it is she who, without clearly teaching it, bas yet
by all her laws, her forms, and her tendencies, put together,
generalized the opinion that the essential point is to belong
to her, that the very worst of her children is nearer salvataon
than the most pious of heretics. Hence, it little matters how
one may have come to her or returned to her. Wheliier the
conversion has been apontaneona and sincere, or whether a
mean love of life has been its only motive— it is unite the
same ; yon have been again admitted into favour before the
Church and before God. In this way, the end will always
justify the means. Confiscation, fines, vexations of all kinds,
imprisonment, the galleys, suffering all will be lawfijl ta
bring within the pale of the Ciiurch those who would choose
to remain without."

" We must make distinctions — we must make distincUons,"
said Chamay.

" Jesuit — Jesuit," repeated Jean de Lourmade to himself.

" We must make distinctions," repeated Chamay. " The'
Church has nothing to do with the scaffold or the galleys.
She has a horror of shedding blood. Abhorrel d ianguine.
Spiritual weapons are the only ones that she can or will

" So," said Jean, "when we go to the galleya" —

I

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 325

" Whose is the edict that sends you there ?"

" When our ministers are put to death " —

" Who pronounces the sentence ? "

" Very good. After that, to attribute to you the horrors
of the Inquisition would be pure calumny. The Inquisition,
even in Spain, has not shed a drop of blood ; no, it only
makes people over to certain officers of the Crown, knovdng
very well, it is true, that they will be burned ; but that word
is not in the sentence. Condemn to death I — ^for shame I — the
Church, such a tender mother I "

But though this was said in raillery, Jean had risen from
his seat. Irony did not satisfy him. Indignation burst
forth.

"And do you dare," cried he, "to say that to our faces?
Do you not feel that it would be enough to give us, if we
had it not already, both disgust and horror towards your
Church? Whatl because the edicts of Louis XIV. were
not signed by priests, it is not the Church that bears the re-
sponsibility of them I Because priests do not sit here in the
Parliament, it will not be the Church who sends us to
death I Where, then, have our kings taken the monstrous
doctrine which makes them sovereigns over souls as well as
bodies ? Who has boasted to them of that unity which you
make your idol? Who has charged them to maintain it,
though it be with fire and sword? Who has praised and
blessed them for whatever cruelties they have invented
against the enemies of this sanguinary chimera ? Who has
perpetually represented to them that the oppression of here-
tics is the surest means of pleasing God, of atoning for their
crimes or their sins ? Whence do cries of indignation arise
in France, as soon as Government appears willing to let us
breathe ? And you would wash your hands of all these atro-
cities 1 and you would have it sufficient to * make distinctions'

326 PRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

in order that all this blood that has been shed should not be
laid to your charge I ' The king I — ^the edicts I — ^the paxlia-
ments I ' The king is but the arm ; but you — you are the
head I "

The Jesuit had frequently tried, but in vain, to intermpt
him. Lourmade, standing erect, and with a glance of fire,
overawed him by his looks and gestures.

What could he have answered ? The vehemence of the
language did not take from the truth of the facts.

But the Jesuit's strange " Let us make distinctions," had
been, nevertheless, in the mouth of every one interested in
exculpating the Church and the clergy for a long time past.
We meet with it again, long afterwards, even down to the
memorial in which Malesherbes came to the conclusion of
emancipating the Protestants. " The bishops of Languedoc,"
says he, " demanded, in 1752, the rigorous execution of the
laws of Louis XIV. It could not be in their character of
bishops that they made this demand. The bishops are mini-
sters of peace. When they advise punishment, they consider
themselves as laymen consulted by the king." A great con-
solation, assuredly, to the victims of their sanguinary councils I
But that which Malesherbes evidently wrote only as a figure
of oratory, that he might not have to stigmatize too severely
the rigour for the cessation of which he pleaded, others said,
and still say, with incredible assurance. It is in substantial
volumes that people have ventured in our day to tell the sons
of martyrs, that their fathers were not put to death by the
Church. The endeavour has been made gravely and learnedly
to prove that the Inquisition did not condemn to death.

But as Jean de Lourmade was continuing with increasiog
ardour to overturn this abominable sophism —

" Enough — be calm,*' said his eldest brother at last. " Do
you think that this gentleman requires to be convinced ? Do

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 327

you know Father Chamay?" said he, addressing himself to
Chamay.

" Father — Chamay ? " said the Jesuit.

" Yes ; the Inspector of missions."

" Well ?"

" Well, go and ask him if it is not he who sends us to the
galleys, and if he believes himself to be anything but a
zealous agent of your Church in sending us there."

Chamay breathed freely, glad that he had not announced
his name, for he imagined himself equally unknown to all the
witnesses of this scene. Even more than Babaut, he now
longed to be outside those walls.

" Gentlemen," said he, " I confess that I did not expect
attacks of this kind. I came — ^from pure charity. I intended
to speak to you — ^in the name of the Church, it is tme ; but
her rights do not depend upon the greater or lesser severity
which man may have used in enforcing them. We are poor
sinners. We might be even greater sinners than we are, and
yet the Church would still be the Church — heir of the pro-
mises — ^pillar of the truth, as St. Paul says — the mother of
us all, and of you, too, who reject her. What 1 would God
have sent His Son to bring truth into the world, and this
treasure have been left at the mercy of human imagination ?
The work of God abandoned by God Himself 1 Reflect upon
it, dear friends. Would you act thus youi-selves ? Laws I and
no magistrates I An infallible book, and no infallible inter-
preter of it I It might as well not be infallible ; or rather.
He had better not have given it to us."

" Sir," said Rabaut, " you believe, I suppose, in the holi-
ness of God?"

" What a question I "

" You believe that God made man ?"

" Yes, doubtless."

FKAHCG BEPOTtE THE BETOLITTIOIf.

" In TTiH image ?"

" In His image. It is the e

D of the Bible."

■) proceed,
in giving; ub a law, Bhonld not h
serving it from all adulteration.
I also have an argument to bring forward, God is holy ; Gk)d
created man, and that in Mis own image. He created him,
therefore, pure and holy. Who, after that, will admit that
He did not at the same time take TUe.iBiu^ for preservinjf
him pure, holy, and Binless ? My argament has the i
weight as yom^ ; it has but one defect, which is, that
conclusion is positively contrary to facts — man, the work
God who is good, is bimaelf evil."

" But," said Chamay, " that may be explained. Maa
free, unless we make a machine of him."

" Take care," said Eabaut ; " I did not say that it
inexplicable; I said that, & priori, we should not have
agined to ourselvea a holy God as permitting eviL SJ
then. He permits it, neither can you Buppose that He
signed to render error impossible, once a revelation was

" Nor do we aasume," said the Jesuit, " that the ar
A priori is of a nature to sufQce. Thank Gbd I the Chiirch
lias received assurances."

" The Church ! yes — but what Church ? Do not, I beseech
you, lot us play upon words. Tou know as well as we
that when the apostles said the Church, they spoke of
ChriBtians."

" Because all Christians, at that time, really formed but'

" There are several now, it is true ; and all theae assnt-
ances, say you, have been inherited by yours alone. But
who afBrms this? She herself. We find ourselves, at the
very outset, in a faulty circle: 'I am infallible. — Why?

ecu

1

PBIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 329

Because God has declared it. — ^Where ? In the Scriptures.
— But we do not see those declarations there. Never mind ;
they are there. — ^And who can vouch for it ? II' This is
the point to which all your arguments upon this subject
necessarily arrive. ' I am infallible, for I aflfirm it. I affirm
it, because I am infallible.' It is quite useless. Your labour
is lost. We want a demonstration prior to yours, independent
of the authority to be established. Where can you seek for
this demonstration ?"

" That is a question," said Chamay, " that I should not
have expected from a Protestant. Where shall I seek my
first proofe ? — ^why, in the very book where you yourselves
seek for all yours."

" With us," said the minister, " it is quite a different thing.
The more we appeal to the Bible, the more faithftd we are
to our principles ; with you, all appeal to its authority is the
renunciation of yours."

" Have we not always considered it as the first and surest
source of faith?"

" As the first, yes ; as the surest, no. It is not the Bible,
with you, that is the sure guide to true faith ; it is the Bible
interpreted by the Church. What does a direct appeal to the
Scriptures signify with you ? Is it not an invitation to ex-
amine them ? But examination is Protestantism. You must
then begin by being Protestants, in order to become Catholics !
No, no I authority enforces its right, but does not prove it.
Authority is no longer itself when it begins to look for argu-
ments.

" I go further," pursued Kabaut. " I maintain that the
very texts on which your Church rests its pretensions to infalli-
bility, after all, count for nothing. The Scriptures abound in
declarations quite as explicit in their terms, which you would
never think of setting up as positive promises. * Whatsoever

PBANCB BEFOSE THE SETOLUTIOM.

3 Bhall ask the Father

?, he will give it yoa/^

' God gives the Holy Spirit to all wlio nsk for him,' This is "
clear, much clearer tian all that haa lieeE brougkt forward in
favour of your Chnrch. The Quaker is quite as much jus-
tified, according to these declarations, to believe biniself in-
spired by the Holy Spirit, as the Chtirch, according to others,
to declare herself infallible. It is, therefore, as you aee, a
question that cannot be settled affirmatively by the SoriptureB
in any one's favour. If I had not a word to answer to all yyii
might advance, to prove to me that the Church must be infalli-
ble, it would still remain to he examined if she is so ; and this
examination would have to begin again at every doctrine, at
every fraction of a doctrine.

" You always lay down as a principle, that God wills unity,
To labour to bring it about, it matters not by what means, ifi
to bo a fellow -labourer with God I God wills unity I
can you know that? Nay, open your eyes, and you
much rather be led to think that it is not His wOl ; at li
unity such as your Church understands it. What 1 it ia
will, really the will of the Almighty, and at the end of eij
teen centnries we are still unable to agree 1 It ie nee«
to salvation, and yet He has allowed so many doors to
open by which we might diverge from it. The best prooi
my opinion, that it hus not been His will, and that aalvg
is not attached to it, is that it does not exist.

" This laid down, can you have a right to force any one to
work out his salvation by one means more than by another?
You will answer me that tliere are not two ways, and that if
you wish to force ub to take yours, it ia because it is the only
one. Be it so ; but here yun mix up two things of which one
does not necessarily imply the other. The right to teach is
not the right to constrain. The apostles inconteatably had
the firrt; when did they arrogate to themBelves the second?

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 331

What mention do the very words make, which you quote to
establish the infallibility of your Church, of constraint to be
exercised towards those who will not listen to her voice?
* Constrain them to come in,' says the Scripture ; but it is
evident that at a period when the Church was herself perse-
cuted, these words could only be understood of zeal and per-
suasion.

" I repeat, then, infallibility, even supposing it to be proved,
does not involve the right of constraint. God, who could
constrain without violence, and simply by acting upon the
soul, does not do so. Wherefore ? we know not ; but the fact
is sucli nevertheless. He could by a word unite us, and He
does not do it. How can we suppose that He has made over
to you a power which He himself does not exercise, to you
who can only exercise it by tormenting your brethren, and
defiling Christianity by the most odious severities ?

"Will you now say that these severities prove nothing
either for or against ; that the authority of the Church is in-
dependent of the means, whether good or bad, by which it has
been maintained ? I answer, that without this severity, autho-
rity is but a name. What is it, I ask, in countries where the
secular power is not at its service ? In France, what could
you do against us without the support lent you by the govern-
ment ? What can you do against infidelity, even with this
assistance ? What heretic have you converted, what infidel
have you reduced to silence, by commanding him, in the
name of the Church, but without threats or violence, to be
silent, or to believe ? When have you seen that the priest, if
he is not backed by that which enforces obedience to him, is
more listened to than our pastors ? Persecution, sir, persecu-
tion, is the necessary adjunct of the system of Home. Autho-
rity, alone, exists only for those who are willing to submit to
it ; but in that case, it is liberty. There is no medium ;

asCE BEFOBS T

liberty, or persecution. Do not speak to us, then, of infalli-
bility and authority ; either they are vain words or dreadful-
realities. If there be nothing to support them, people will
turn them into ridicule ; if there be anything, it is necessarily
a scaffold. "

But Eabaut had forgotten himself, Lights had been
brought in, and CLarnay could see the new speaker. His
freetlom of language, easy gesture — that naroetess soiuethinjf
which marks the man accustomed to speak — the attention of
the others, and of Rochette himstlf, who had been silent while
Eabaut was speaking ; all this, in short, had concurred to
make the Jesuit think that M. Tlieo, the merchaut, miglit
perhaps be something more. Indeed, for some momenta past
he had scarcely listened. It might be read in the expression
of his eyes, that he was thinking of something else than an
answer to give or an error to refute.

Jean de Lourmade had been the first to remark these secret
workings of his mind. He had followed theu- progress on the
countenance of the Jesuit ; he had caught something like an
effort to restrain a sudden discovery at Rabaat's last words.
All was over ; Chamayhad understood that his opponent was
a minister. Who could tell — perhaps be had already guessed

He had indeed guessed it ; and Rabaut, when too late, was
the first to become aware of it. More Belf-poaseased from
courage than the Jesuit from dissimulation, he had manifested
no signs of agitation ; but this supernatural effort had com-
pletely worn him out. Hie tongue, which np to that moment
had expressed bis thoughts with his usual freedom, seemed
suddenly paralysed. He had just seen as it were that scaffold
behind his enemy which he himseK exhibited as rising up
Iwhind all the decrees of Rome. He saw himself taken ;
Q with hia son — two lives lost, two deaths t

?fiIEST3, IKPIDELS, :

333

for there was no pity to be expected from a Charuay ; and it
was more than doubtfiil whether the attorney-general, who
had incurred sufficient risk in allowing' him to enter the prison,
would incur a still greater hy letting him go out of it. Be-
sides, once the thing had got ahroad, that magistrate himsell'
would prohablynot be able to do anything in the matter.

They had understood each other. They looked at one
1 another as if fafwinated, without moving. Chamay did not
I venture to eeizo upon his prey ; Rabaut held in his breath, as
I if the slightest movement would have inclosed him in the net
' which he felt to be already thrown over him. The otlierB
wai(«d, in speechless alarm, the issue of this fear^I duel.

At length, Chamay, half rising, his eyes kindhng, frown-
ing darkly, his arm extended towards the minister, cried out,
" Rabaut 1"

No one moved. But Rabaat, in his turn, raised his hand,
and, pointing towards the Jesuit, exclaimed, " Chamay!"

"Chamay I" they all exclaimed.

This explosion of horror restored him to his usual audacity.
He rose impetuously. " Yes," cried he ; " yes, it is Chamay 1
you know it now — you shall know it still bettor. It is Chamay,
heretics 1 Yes, you have guessed right — and I, too. It is
my timi, preacher. You outwitted me at Aigues-Mort^s ; you
did the same at Pont-de-Montvert ; but you shall not outwit
me at Toulouse. — Jailer ! help ! help 1 " He rushed towards
the door. But Jena was beforehand with him. Armed with
one of the knives that were on the table, he had bounded over
to the priest, tmd, seizing him by the arm, said —

" Not one word—rot a cry 1 You have, perhaps, been
heard ; they may come ; invent some excuse — say whatever
you please. I have but one word to say to you — if M.
Rabaut is taken, you are a dead man 1 "

" Let me alone," said Chamay ; " 1 want to go oiit."

334 PRAMCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION,

" You shall not go out."

"I shall not go out?"

" No ; not till he has gone out, and is safe."

" I will not say a word."

"Indeed?"

" I swear."

" Indeed ? Which of the Councils is it that says the oaths
made to heretics should not be kept ? That of Constance, I
believe."

" Let us bring this to an end. What do you want of me ?"

" I am going to ring the bell ; the. jailer will come in ; yofu
will be seated with us, down there, at the farther end of the
room. M. Rabaut and his son will go away — ^you will see
them go; then you shall go yourself^»-half an hour after-
wards, of course. Come, sir."

Chamay, pale with rage, allowed himself to be brought
back to the seat he had quitted. Jean had already seized the
bell-pull.

" One moment," said Eabaut.

" No," said the prisoner. " Why delay?"

" Why ? because I shall not return, my poor child." His
voice was quite broken. It was but too evident that, after
this adventure, he could not run the risk of coming back to
the prison.

" Farewell, then," resumed he ; " farewell, my friends ;
farewell, Rochette. Do not say to me, as our common
Master did to His disciples — 'If you loved me, you would
rejoice, because I go to the Father.' No, my son, no. I do
love you enough to be able to rejoice that you are going to
our Father. We shall weep for you, but we shall envy your
lot. And you, too, farewell, farewell I These walls, these
gates will no more prevent my being with you in this world,
than the tomb will prevent my being with you, by faith, in

PKIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 335

that world where you will have gone before me. Farewell,
farewell 1 " Jean, at a sign from the pastor, had rung ; he
then came back, and stationed himself beside the priest.

" They are coming," he said to him, in a low voice ; " take
care — a word, a gesture, a glance, and " —

He showed him the knife. Chamay — one arm stretched
out upon the table, and the other hanging at his side, his
head bent down, his fists clenched — had not stirred.

The creaking of bolts was heard. The door was half
opened —

" Show these gentlemen out," said Jean de Lourmade.

And Babaut, after a last farewell, slowly went out with
his son.

The priest did not stir. The noise of doors opening and
shutting was heard. The prisoners remained standing — their
eyes fixed, their ears on the stretch. One more door was
opened, then heavily shut ; it was — they knew the sound — at
last that of the street.

" Safe I" cried Jean.

Still the priest did not stir.

" Safe I" repeated the young man, and threw himself into
the arms of his eldest brother. Then, with a voice loud and
joyous, though it still trembled, he struck up the old Hugue-
not Tt Deum :

" ' Great God, we praiae Thee, and confeiB
That Thou the only Lord
And eyerlasting Father art.
By all the earth adored.'"

They had scarcely begun to sing, when the voices from
below answered them. The sacred echo followed them from
Ime to line, from syllable to syllable. At the end of the verse,
they paused, and immediately the second rose, like a distant
murmur, from the depths of the prison.

336 FBANCE BEFORE THE REVOI^XTTION.

** * To Thee the angels cry al(md~
To Thee the powers on high.
Both chemhim and seraphim.
Continually do ciy.'"

And then the prisoners took it np :

** « holy, holy, holy Lord,

Whom heavenly hosts ohey.'"

A cry of terror stopped them. One of the three, on turning
towards the priest, had just observed his fjEwse covered with
blood. His eyes were closed ; the blood streamed from the
mouth and nostrils ; his dress was already covered with it.

Anger and constraint had brought on apoplexy. The In-
quisitor of Languedoc had preceded, at Ood's tribunal, those
whose death he would have delighted to witness.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 337

CHAPTEE XVII.

Let us now descend, for a few moments, into the dungeon
whence the Galas family had united their voices to those of
the four prisoners. Like the latter, they had seen each other
freely for some time past. At first, they had been kept apart,
and no one had been admitted to see them ; subsequently,
after numerous interrogatories, when it was proved that no-
thing could be drawn from them, they were allowed to be
together, but under the eye of a jailer.

That day, for the first time — it was, we may remember, the
1st of January 1762 — they had been left alone. They were
once more together at table, as on the fatal evening of the
13th of October — ^the father and mother, the son, his friend
Lavaysse, and the two daughters, Eose and Anne ; he only
was wanting whose madness had plunged them all into this
abyss. Their first thought, likewise, had been of him.

" He was there," said the father, sitting down ; " there,
before me — I see him yet ; he did not raise his eyes ; he
seemed to keep aloof from all that was passing. Twice I
asked him why he did not eat. I had almost, that morning,
given him my malediction — he deserved it, unhappy child !
but the recollection was a weight upon my mind; I was<
almost glad to have to show him some mark of interest.
* Don't you eat anything?* I repeated. He did not answer
me, and went away."

*' Enoughs-enough," said the mother.

VOL. II. Y

338 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

"He went away. * Where are you going?' said I; but
lie had already gone out at that door by which he was never
to come in again."

"Father," said Pierre Galas — ^for he saw that his mother
suffered dreadfully at this lamentable story, which the old
man was never tired of repeating — " when shall we have M.
Eabaut's pamphlet?"

" In a few days, I think. M. de la Salle, it appears, per-
sists in saying that it ought not to be published."

" He is wrong."

" Perhaps he is right."

" What kind of judges are those, good Grod I to whom peo-
ple are afraid of proving too clearly that they are mistaken ! '*

" They are our judges, my poor child. We must take
them as they are. And you, Lavaysse, what dp you say ?"

" I say that after my father's and M. Sudre's memorials;
if the Parliament is not convinced, nothing will convince it."

" You are right — nothing," said Pierre Galas. " They are
masterpieces. It is enough to make one proud of having
inspired them."

The truth obliges us to say that it was rather gratitude
than good taste which gave rise to this sentiment in our
captives. Everything was deteriorated in the century of
which we are treating. Truth seemed to take pleasure in
assuming a false disguise. All Galas's advocates had paid
and were yet to pay their tribute more or less to the taste
for grand phrases and grand sentiments. One alone, Rabaut,
was an exception. His Calumny Confounded^ which has
been preserved in Gebelin's ToulousaineSj is a perfect model
of calm reasoning and indignation without bombast.

Sudre, the advocate, on the contrary, had adopted, in all
its exaggeration, the inflated style of the day. We should
laugh, were it not for the subject, at his perpetual apostrophes

FRIESTS, IKFIOELS, i

33il

h) the accnsed, to the judges, to humaoity, truth, nature, lo
mil the abstract gods of a period almost without a God. By
;tiie side of argumentB, very well deduced, we have such

[irases as theao, which a schoolboy might be asharacd of; —
" lu taking your defence," says he to Calae, " I did not con-
r that I was serving yoQ alone ; I considered that I was
serving all my foilow-men. Not one of them but must be
■distressed that the species to which he belongs, should be
■deemed capable of an a<;t of such extraordinary madness."
^What does he mean to say? it is not only affected, but false,
^yen had Calas been acquitted, the murder of a son by bis
&tlier is unfortunately not a thing unheard of, and the y>ecies
ftaB beai often capable of it. Elsewhere : " I have listened to
B wise and the upright," says he. " Their knowledge has
•nlighteaed me. Their noble thoughts have elevated ray

wn." And all this to say that he has studied all the

satm'es of the trial without prejudice. But nothing in this
•tyle can come up to a passage in bis second memorial — for
M. Sudre drew up two. " Whilst I was engaged," says he,
^upon this second document, an imknown hand was also
teceupied in defending these unhappy ones. Generona un-
iknowu I With what joy I saw myself eclipsed 1 Tha^ are.
nkfi! From that moment, earth appeared beautified
tin my sight." Upon which, the author of the Toulousaines,
;r quoting this passage, exclaims ; " It is you who excite

D me a transport of admiration ! " Here we have the learned
Court flattering the declaimer ! and we must confess that liis
1 Toulousaines but too often deserve that aiimiration, the
Jb&pring of a perverted taste, which he professes for the bar-
lister at Toulouse,

I the father and brother of Lavaysse, both barristers,
^ve way to the same kind of declamation in their statement.
U'owards the middle, whether the father really bad hist all

340 FBANCE BEFOBE THE BEVOLUTION.

courage to proceed, or whether it appeared to him an ex-
cellent idea to try a dramatic effect, his pen falls from his
hand. "What do I hear?" he exclaims. "Just heavens I
my son has been brought to trial — ^I have not strength to go
on. I sink — arm yourself with courage, my dear son. Com-
plete the defence of an unfortunate brother." " I obey my
father," says the son, continuing it. " How I pity you, my
beloved brother, to see your cause committed to such feeble
hands I Will zeal make up for talent?" And G^ebelin ex-
claims : " How touching is the whole of this scene I how
affecting I Who can refuse to weep over such earnest and
admirable feeling I "

We might almost suppose we were reading a scene in
Diderot's Fils Naturel. All feeling, even that which flowed
from the purest sources, had become degenerate. The great
leaders of the day had so much praised this style,* that it
was no longer admissible to write in any other.

Happily the arguments were in themselves too powerful to
be cnished under the weight of this heavy pathos.

In his first memorial, Sudre ^.ttacked the legal nullities with
which the proceedings were encumbered j nullity of the first
drawn up statement of facts ; nullity of the first report of the
faculty; nullity of the monitory letter, and consequently of
all the evidence received in virtue of that deed ; nullities, in
short, of all kinds at the very basis of the inquiiy. The
advocate proved that the members of Calas's family, even
were they manifestly guilty, could not legally be condemned
upon such a procedure.

Passing on to the facts themselves, he laid down and
resolved all the questions that referred to them thus : —

* " None but Diderot could undertake such things f M. Diderot opens oat a ii«w roftd
to genius. H. Diderot has but to continue to write in this style, to become abacdnle
master of the stage," &c. — Grimm on the Fils Naturel, March 1757. And yet Gximin
tod testej and great taste ; but he was speaking of Diderot (

PBIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 341

Was it true that Mark Antony Galas had renounced the
Protestant religion, and was to have abjured the following
day, or in a short time ? The author shows that there had
neither been proofe nor even indications of it.

Of what nature, then, were the threats that Galas had been
heard to make to his son ? The author proves that there had
not passed one word but what related to the habitual profli-'
gacy of the latter.

Notwithstanding the length of the proceedings, and the
minuteness of the care apparently bestowed upon them, had
all the facts capable of enlightening the conscience of the
judges been really studied? The author enumerates nine
facts which had not been investigated, and which, so long as
they had neither been done away with nor explained, could
not agree with the supposition that the Galas family was
guilty.

The second and shorter memorial was intended to throw
light upon and corroborate the principal points of the first.
The author shows at the close, the danger of that blind juris-
prudence which allows itself to be led by the passions of the
multitude, and puts the sword of the law into any hand in-
discriminately.

There were also some good things in the anonymous pam-
phlet so emphatically applauded by M. Sudre. Public rumour
ascribed it to M. de la Salle. It was lees a memorial than a
series of observations in favour of the Galas family. The
author added some further nullities to those which had already
been pointed out ; he then applied himself to overturning the
evidence collected against the accused, by comparing that of
the several witnesses. He showed (which it was not difficult
to do) how little they were agreed, how very far they were
from having unitedly the importance of one well-informed or
an ej6-witne8&

342 ntiKCB BBFORK THE KEVOmTTOlT.

Till! memorial liy the two Lavajsses added bnt little to the
preceding oues. It was espetniilly iii fnvour of the ytnmg'
man whom an unfortunate chance had led to the house of the
Calas family on the I3th of October. It was there proved,
that even were they gnilty, Lavaysse could neither have
known of the crime, nor have Msisted in the perpetratioD
of it.

Lavaysse himself had published a narrative of the eveit in
a, few pages. He had annexed to it the attestations which
respc-ctable persoos had sent him, both as to bis moral cha-
racter, and as to the different circomstances of his Joomey ta
Toulouse. He establidied by evidence what he had at firel
declared, namely, that when the Calas family detained hini
to supper, he was on his way to get horses to eet out imme'
diately for his father's hmise at Caraman.

Finally, a sixth memorial ap[>eared, the author of which
was the son, Louis Oalas, who had become a Roman Catholic,
He stated that he had not been troubled by his ^mily on
account of his change ol religion ; and that, on the other hand,
he had never seen in his brother, Mark Anioaj, any dispo-
sition to follow his esampie.

Such was, with Rabaiit'a pamphlet, the amount of the
written defence. Such were the arguments and faets which
the tribunal had to withstand, if it allowed the animoBity of
an erring mnltitude to triumph,

But let MS return to the accused.

The meal had been gone throngh sorrowfully, whilst they
calculated for the hundredth time the probabilities of condem-
nation or acquittal. Let us not be astonished that the CaJases
should be more absorbed with this thought than the prisoineTS
on the other story. A man who, like Bochette, bad long-
offered up his life as a sacrifice, could, without a great effort,
pat aside these gloomy thoughts; but it is hard to be cour-

TBIGSTS, INFIDELS, A

BgeonB in the midst of one's family. Death, which if aloni;
you would tsike lightly, BeiacB hold of you, and overwhelms
j-ou, in the midst of all the ties of husbancl, wife, father, mo-
ther, and children. The three Greniera were brothers ; Imt
they had all the ardour of youth, the carelessneBS of the
French gentleman ; and besides, having been accused toge-
ther, they were at least sure of being condemned or acquitted
together. As for the Calnaes, they had been tried apart ; and
although it was maniiestly absurd, the crime being admitted,
to suppose that the father had committed it alone, it was
evidently the father that was especially intended to be con-
demned. Each, consequently, besidea his own personai ap-
prehensions, had to tremble for old Galas. It was injustice
within injustice. All of them were innocent, and yet had to
, bestow their pity upon the old man, equally innocent with
I tiieniselves, hut whose niin was specially determined upon.

~ et T18 add, that they had not been spared those miserable
l^bsessions so stoutly repulsed by the four other prisoners.
I 5'hat which waa merely a weariness, and a tiresome way of
kifASsing time to the latter, was to this unhappy family a snf-
Lfering of every day and every hour. The converters hoped
m to find an easier and surer prey in the two young girls. Pro-
lunises, insinuations, threats — nothing had been neglected to
lalienate them from their parents; and though they had been
a yet unshaken, attacks of this kind had succeeded too often
pfcr the parents not to tremble lest they should succeed with
[ their daughters.

Father Bourges had distingoiahed himself particularly in
L this sad crusade. He carried into it an outward show of the
most obsequious charity. Perhaps we are even wrong in
speaking of outward show only, for nothing authorizes ns to
suppose that he may not have been sincerely charitable. But
be was one of those who venture to do as much from charity.

344 FRANCE BEFORE THE SEYOLimON.

and even more, than others from fanaticism. Obsessions pro-
ceeding from kind motives are often the most wearisome,
because we have not that strength to resist them which in-
dignation gives ns.

He had, however, fonnd, both in Galas and in his son, men
able to cope with him ; and he had moreover observed, that
the young girls communicated their conversations with him
to them. He had therefore been obliged to employ rather
better arguments than those which priests in general bestow
upon women — such as vague sentiment, startling assertions,
facts arranged, not to say falsified. Despite of this, he had
more than once allowed himself to be caught in the very fact
of exaggeration — still not to use another word, which would
perhaps be more correct.

One day, for instance, he had spoken to them in a magni-
ficent style of the succession of the popes. Prom St. Peter
down to Clement XIII., according to him, there had been
neither gap nor schism, and the young girls began to admire
the long and majestic chain. But the next day they asked
him what he made of the anti-popes ; of the four-and-twenty
schisms, five of which are in one century * alone ; of the ob-
scurities that encompass the succession at the outset, &c., all
more or less capable of being perhaps explained, but which
should at least suffice to spare us those grand pictures by
which the simple-minded are dazzled.

Another day, when explaining the constitution of the
Church, he took care to say nothing of the transformations
it had undergone. There could be no reason left, after listen-
ing to him, for thinking otherwise than that the cardinals
dated from the days of St. Peter ; so that the young' girls,
without going quite so far as that, seemed very near allowing
that the organization of the Church of Rome may he traced

* The eleTenth.

FKIESTB, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 345

in reality up to the primitive Christians. The brother then
a«ked him what he made of the period when the Bishop of
Eome was appointed by the faithful of the diocese, when he
did not at all interfere in the nomination of others, when the
cardinals were only the priests of the principal parishes of the
towns, &c. — all things which Father Bourges' successors, too,
would willingly be dispensed from remembering.

The sacraments, the seven sacraments of the Church, that
sacred number so audaciously curtailed by the Eeformation,
was also one of the great phrases most frequently in his mouth.
They asked him, therefore, if he had forgotten that this num-
ber had only been decided, and that after much debate, in
1546.

At other times, it was by the Scriptures themselves that he
tried to bring the young girls to the ideas which they knew
were refuted by Scripture.

" Bishops I " he said, for instance, to them one day, " how
could we do without them? Even your Bibles speak of
them." And he showed them the word, indeed, in a Pro-
testant version. But this time the young girls had no need
of assistance. They showed him the word continually used
indiscriminately with that of presbyter, or pastor, in the New
Testament. Pierre Calas only asked him if he was not aware
that this indiscriminate use of terms is also to be met with in
Clemens Komanus, the very same who is made to be one of
the successors of St. Peter.

" ' And if he will not hear the Church,' " said he to them
another day, " * let him be to you as a heathen man and a
publican.' It is not I who say it," added he, " it is Christ."
" Yes," said they, " but have you forgotten what goes before?
The subject is simply a quarrel between two brethren, and
the word church in this passage applies to believers in gene-
ral, whom they are desired to take as arbitrators, rather than

846

E BEFOBE THE BEVOLHTIQII.-

he judges." WLat could he answer? WLat
can those answer who still dare pervert tliia passage from the
sense which it evidently hore in the mouth of Christ? — for it
IB one of the t«sts moat frequently brought forward.

On this ground of the Scriptures, which WU6 familiar to
them, the young girls often stopped him, less with detailed
objections than by simple appeals to his conscience and good
sense. If he succeeded, by a. laborious entanglement of paa-
Bages, in giving tJiem something lifee a proof of the doctrine
of purgatory, — " Toa do not serionsly believe," said they,
" that a doctrine so important, so closely connected with
many points of which the apostles have treated, would not
once have been directly taught in their wrilings?" If he
attempted to prove from the Scriptures, confession, the mass,
and the worship of saints, he was met by the same kind of
observations. " He could not seriously think," they aaid to
him, " that points become so important, would have been
scarcely mentioned in the course of so many pages addressed
to so many churches?"

There was, however, one point on which he found them
more docile.

The worship of the Virgin Mary has always been
priest's surest instruments of persuasion and influence. Hei
the immense importance which has been given to this tn
ship ; hence its very existence, for there is no article of Eaitli
upon which an enlightened Romanist, provided he trace it to
its origin, is so soon obliged to pass condemnation.

But, on the other hand, it is also one of those upon whiol
the most enlightened do not allow themselvea to reason,
" What harm does this worship do us, then?" they seem to
say to those who oppose it. '" It combines everything so ad-
mirably, faith, charity, and religions as well as poetical emo-
tions. We have not much to do with it ourselves ; but it it

'^^1

1^

PHIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 347"

the religion of our wives and daughters. Why should we
deprive them of it?"

It is, indeed, especially the religion of women. Why bo ?
Christianity offers them all the emotions which their nature
peculiarly needs, and certainly no woman ever sought them
from this source in vain; but the Church of Rome prefers
offering them herself^ according to her own ideas, and in a
worship exclusively hers, the influence of which must neces-
sarily turn to her advantage.

There was nothing, however, a hundred years ago, at all
approaching to what has been said and done on this subject
in our day. The prevailing infidelity had rendered a great
service to Romanism ; it obliged it to be, at least outwardly,
as rational as the system will admit of. Books such as those
with which we are now inundated, would then have roused
the indignation of the faithful almost as much as of the in-
fidel party. The, Virgin Mary, though honoured officially,
remained, amongst well-informed persons, quite in the back-
ground. She performed no miracles; appeared to no one;
she was satisfied with being, in virtue of Louis XIII.'s vow,
the patroness of France, without exacting from the French
people as much honour as she received in Italy or in Spain.
No one would have ventured to say, like M. de Bonald in
1844, that the religion of Christ, and devotion to the Virgin,
were " two sisters /" no one would have dared to afiGbrm, like
him, that " these two sisters had come down together from the
holy mountain, to go forth together to the conquest of souls,''
nor, still less, that ^^ wherever the standard of salvation is
raised, the colours of Mary are seen unfurled." The Pro-
testants would not have been alone to utter the cry of " false-
hood," and the learned Jansenists would have asked the
clergy whether they intended to furnish fresh weapons to
heretics, and new subjects for ridicule to infidels.

548 FBANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

Father Bourges, too, had very cleverly withdrawn this ques-
tion from Scriptural ground, on which he knew well that the
young girls would defeat him ; it was even hy giving way on
this point that he had hegun to insinuate the thing to them.
" The worship of the Virgin was not commanded in Scripture ;
but had Scripture intended to fix, upon all points, the precise
limits of what would be agreeable to God ? Could the Pro-
testants themselves strictly justify by it all that they did in
their churches, persuaded they were doing right ? To pleaae
God, to save our souls — that is the point. Where is it said,
that if we see a way of doing this opened out which is suited
to us, we are to shun it, merely because God has not formally
pointed it out ? To please God — what I how can we please
Him better than by honouring her whom an angel sent from
Him called blessed amongst women f To save our souls — ^but
salvation is promised to piety, and to love. Why then, why
reject what may increase our piety, cherish our love ; in a
word, fill our hearts with holy emotions, of which God is still
the source and object?"

It was thus that the old Dominican expressed himself, and
by continually renewing the subject, he had almost succeeded.
The young girls began to ask themselves whether it might
not be possible to avoid all exaggeration, and yet honour the
Virgin a little more than their parents did. The latter spoke
of her indeed, as Scripture does, with great respect ; but with-
out ardour, without love. Was it not very cold, very lifeless?
Why not love Jesus Christ a little in His mother, just as we
love God in Christ ?

This question absorbed them more and more. The priest
observed that they did not open their minds upon it to their
parents. They had then come so far as to fear being unde-
ceived ! He grew bolder. He proceeded at last to speak to
them of all that he taught his female devotees on this subject,

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 349

but gradually, and as if yielding to the desires of their own
heart and imagination. Meanwhile, he let all other matters
slumber ; he knew well enough that once this altar was raised
up in their minds, the mass, and all that follows in its train,
would in the end be enthroned there likewise.

The very skill he had used was designed to defeat his
plans.

" Well," said Galas one day to his daughters, " you never
speak of Father Bourges now. He has not certainly been all
this time without visiting you."

" We have seen very little of him," said they.

" You have, however, seen him. What has he spoken of
to you, that you have told me nothing about it?"

^^ He has set aside all that could be painful to us."

" Very good ; but what more ?"

" We have only spoken of — of piety."

" Indeed ? He has till now appeared to me to know very
little about it. His piety seemed to us still further removed
from ours, than his belief from our belief. Forms, repetitions,
penances, — and the saints, — and the Virgin" —

He saw that they blushed. He understood all.

He however restrained himseK. The explanation, thought
he, will be more useful before the converter himseK.

The next day, therefore, he said to Father Bourges, " Sir,
I was not aware that with you there were two religions."

" Two religions?" said the Father.

" Yes, indeed. The one you preach to me and my son, is
certainly not that" —

" Oh I Father I" exclaimed the young girls.

" Let me go on," resumed he. " Father Bourges will, I
suppose, be so good as explain to me" —

" Strong meat for those who are of full age — ^milk for
babes," said Father Bourges, sententiously.

350 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

'^ Let US at least taste the milk, that we may know if it is
pure."

" Ask your daughters what they thought of it."

" Very sweet, I am convinced. There are poisons which
are very sweet."

" Poison I — the worship of the Virgin I "

" Ah I so it was the worship of the Virgin ?"

** Did you not know it ?"

" My daughters did not tell me, sir. They have began
their new religion," added he, looking fixedly at them, " by
concealment from their fsither and mother, for the first
time"—

But he had hardly finished these words, before Bose and
Anne had thrown themselves into his arms, bathed in tears.
One look from their father had sufficed to overthrow the
scaffolding raised by the priest.

" Sir," resumed Galas, " I am weary, quite weary of con-
troversy. I declared to you, some days ago, already, that I
would reply no longer. But you have sown error, and I
must root it up. You have concealed your manoeuvres ; my
daughters must be taught to what you would have led
them."

" What manoeuvres are you speaking of?" said the priest;
" ask them "—

" If they perceived them ? I have no difficulty in believ-
ing that they did not. It is precisely on that account that
I intend to open their eyes. Can you deny, that in speaking
to them of the Virgin only, you were preparing the way for
the rest?"

" I have sufficiently shown from the beginning, that I wish
to see you Catholics."

" Yes ; but you have allowed these children to believe that
you no longer thought of it, and were only leading them

PRIESTS, IXFIDELS, AKD HCGUENOTS. 351

where dbey themselves wished to go. Is it trne^ mj d»ugh-
teis?"

Ther cast down their eves.

" Let us set aside the question of honesty/' resumed Calas.
" Besides, jonr Church is not accustomed, we know, to stop
at that consideration when the oligect is to win oyer souls*
Bat it k not with us alone that the Virgin is your auxiliary.
There are countries where you only rule by her, where the
whole of Christianity consists in her worship" —

" An abuse I" interrupted the priest

'^ An enormous abuse, indeed ; but do you think to escape
by confessing it ? It must be proved that this abuse is dis-
pleasing to your Church, that she contends against and forbids
it. Is it so ? Who encourages and directs all the homage
that we see paid to the Virgin ? Where does she reign as a
sovereign, as a goddess, if not in the countries where all is
done by the Church and for the Church? Can you help
seeing that in those countries the people only venerate her,
only adore her— only, for I cannot suppose that you will
seriously bring forward as an objection to me, your vain dis-
tinctions of words ? What do you do, I repeat, to prevent
these errors ? Who sanctions them, if not you ?"

" You may say what you please," said the priest ; " you
cannot prevent all this from being foreign to the question.
Have you never seen abuses in what appeared to you good
and true?"

" Let us distinguish, I beg, between temporary and per-
manent abuses. Abuse may introduce itself everywhere ;
but when a thing is in its own nature calculated to bring on
abuse — ^to encourage it, to make it inevitable, this is already,
whatever you may say, a serious argument against it. Now,
amongst those who are sincere in their devotion to the mother
of the Saviour, do you know many in whose minds it is kept

852 PBANCE BEFOBE THE BEVOLUTION.

exactly in the place which your theologians assign to it?
many who only pray to her, as to one who herself needs to
pray to God, and who are not, in the ardour of their faith,
carried away into invoking her as they would invoke God
Himself, adoring her as they adore God? All my life, I
have been asked charity in the name of the Holy Virgin ; all
my life, when I gave alms, the poor who did not know I was
a Protestant, have said to me — May the Holy Virgin return
it to you! Everywhere, in the language of the common
people, it is she who blesses, she who protects, she who
punishes, she who saves ; everywhere, as soon as she becomes
something in religion, she becomes more than you yourselves
teach, in your books, that she ought to be. Once more, all
that infallibly entails abuses, dangerous abuses, be it in itself
good or bad, is an evil. One thing alone, therefore, could
sanction or excuse the worship of the Virgin — ^its being en-
joined, or at least permitted, by Scripture. Does it enjoin
it? You cannot venture to ajBfirm that it does. Does it
permit it ? You will say yes."

" How could we say no ? * All generations shall call me
blessed,' said Mary herself. '^

" Do we refuse to call her blessed ? But between that and
worshipping her, there is a vast difference. Upon this very
word blessed^ we have a commentary in the Gospel, com-
pletely opposed to the sense that you would give it. ' Blessed,'
cries out a woman, ' blessed the womb that bare thee I ' ' Yea,
rather blessed,' replies Christ, * are those who hear the word
of God, and do it I ' Another day, when one said unto Him
that His mother and His brethren desired to speak to Him :
* Who is my mother ?' said He, ' and who are my brethren V
Then, pointing to His disciples — ' Behold my mother and my
brethren V He adds — * For whosoever shall do the will of my
Father which is in heaven, the same is my brother, and my

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 353

sister, and my mother.' Truly, if these words were not in
the Scriptures, or if we were allowed to arrange them as we
liked, I think I could not invent anything more favourable
to our views. Such was Mary during the life of her Son on
earth. Afterwards, she is still less conspicuous. In the book
of Acts, she only appears once ; in the Epistles, she is not
even named. Yes, you cannot show us that name which you
repeat perpetually — which you inscribe on the front of your
temples — which you would teach us to invoke — ^written once
in those long exhortations of the apostles to the believers of
their times.

" And is it you, my children," pursued he, addressing his
daughters, "is it you who would speak when a St. Paul has
been silent ? Is it you who would pretend to distribute offices
in heaven? Because your feelings and your imagination require
one for the Virgin, the Virgin must have one I But reflect
what you are doing ; the heathen divinities were created thus.
Everything that man imagined he needed was invoked, and
everything he invoked became a god."

" We have never prayed to her," said one of the young
girls.

"Would it have been long before you did so? To call
her blessed, is easy enough. As soon as the mind is not
satisfied with keeping strictly to that, what is to be done next
but what Kome does ? No, my children, no I let there be no
deception. Do not hope to be wiser and firmer than so. many
others. As soon as you depart from Scripture, it little matters
whether it be one step o^ a hiindred — the first is the decisive
step. Once we get upon the ground of human opinions, we
must slip, and roll on to the very end. Only begin by honour-
ing the Virgin, next you will pray to her, and after that
adore her."

The young girls felt their danger. As for throwing off the

VOL. n. • z

FBANCE BEFOBE THE RETOLITTHW.

impresBions which had exposed them to it, it was r
cult, finii their father had too much good senBe to require t
it aliould he the work of a. day. But the priest felt 1
henceforward they wei'e armed with what would best 1
his efforts — distrust of him and of themselvpH, and i
resolution to keep to the teaching; of Scripture on all pomta
He saw clearly there was nothing more to be attempted.

He had on that account thought of taking a coadjutor, but
not the same, however, as with the minieter and the three
hrothers, Chamay had appeared to him little calculated to
gain the confidence of an affectionate and afBicted family ;
and chalice offered him a man who seemed made for Buch 41
task. Tliat man was Father Bridaine.

During Advent he had preached at Toulouse. His Bormonl
although attended with eager euthusiaBin, bad not heen 1
to draw off' attention from the gloomy preoccnpations of t
multitude. The fanaticism of Toulouse, besides,
found what it ex]iected in tbem ; for, although the preacbl
avoided all allusions to tlie two great trials going on, it was
easy to see that he did not espouse the blind animosity of the
mob. The Galas family, in particular, interested him ; hu
was inclined to believe them innocent, aad wished with all
his heart to be sure of it. He had therefore eagerly accepted
the proposal to visit them. He was so much accustomed to
read the human heai't, that he felt sm'c beforehand h
soon know what to think of the case.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 355

CHAPTER XVIIL

Our prisoners had risen from table. The gentlemen were
conversing in a comer ; the mother and the two daughters
had gone near to the window. That last ray of sunshine,
which we have seen penetrating into the chamber above
them, had just left theirs.

" Already 1 " said one of the daughters.

" Already I" repeated the other.

" Yet no, '* resumed the former, " why regret it ? Night
is less melancholy than day here ; by day, it seems to me as
if the sun were in prison like myself."

" Poor child I " said the mother, " is it not rather that you
think it happy to go away when it pleases?"

" Perhaps."

" And yet the sun is a captive, too."

"Oh! mother!"

" Is not its path traced out ? — ^never, you know, has it
wandered an inch from it."

" A captive, if you will ; but what a prison I — space — ^the
heavens I"

" Its heaven. Have we not ours also ?"

" We shall have it."

" We can have it now, my child, if we please. Where Grod
is, there is heaven."

" And God is everywhere, mother."

" Everywhere ; and in the dreariest prison, if we seek Him,

356 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

He is to be found, even more easily than elsewhere. Believe
me, my child, the soul that has found God is freer than the
sun."

"And more glorious, is it not?"

" Yes, more glorious. More precious in the sight of God
than all the marvels with which He has adorned the universe.
When the light of the sun is extinguished, it will still shine."

" Because another sun, one that will never cease to shine,
Mrill enlighten it."

" The last ray is disappearing ; are you still as sad,
daughter?"

" I am no longer sad, mother."

" You are weeping."

" And you also."

" Hush I there is some one coming I Who can it be ?"

" God I Another priest I "

" Another^ indeed," said Bridaine — ^for it was he. " Yes,
young lady, another."

But he had approached nearer to her, and his open and
frank expression of countenance soon effaced the painftil im-
pression produced by the sight of his costume. Lavaysse, who
had heard him preach, recognised and named him. Galas
immediately went up to him and said —

" Sir. you see that you are not quite a stranger here. We
know that you have been the friend and comforter of many of
the afflicted ; will you be ours ?"

He held out his hand to him. But Bridaine looked at him
without moving.

"You are Jean Calas?"

" Yes."

Bridaine still looked at him.

" And is it you who speak thus?"
.**Whynot?"

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 357

^' He is innocent r' exclaimed Bridaine, seizing his hand.
** You are — yes, say so — ^you are innocent, you are innocent I"

" For three months past I have said so."

" And is it possible that they coxdd not believe you ? "

" Say rather that they would not."

" And could they— could they" —

" Finish the sentence. You mean, condemn me ?

" Ah, sir I " cried the young girls, throwing themselves
before the missionary ; " you see that he is innocent ; — save
him ! save him I"

Bridaine took both their hands.

"My poor children, do not deceive yourselves as to my
power. Your father is innocent. Yes, I see it. I am cer-
tain of it. I will say it openty ; but there are many others
who say it, and yet are not listened to. Be resigned. Pray,
and leave all in God's hands I "

In a few minutes he was quite one of the family. Seated
beside the father, he inquired, with affectionate interest, what
were their hopes, their fears, the habits of their life in prison.
They were themselves surprised at the confidence which they
were induced to show him. They had, indeed, nothing to
hide from any one. They did but continue, as prisoners, the
humble domestic life which they had always led. All that
they wished, on the contrary, was to be seen and known.
Bridaine had seen them, and he had immediately rejected
every species of doubt as to their innocence.

But he was beginning, in spite of himself^ to remember
that to see them was not his only object in being there. The
man was satisfied, but the priest was not.

And yet, when listening to the touching picture they drew
of their feelings and habits, he had already secretly asked him-
self whether they wanted the instructions with which they
were harassed, and what these new dogmas could add to their

ySAMCE BETOBB THX BETOltrnOMi

resignatioD, their piety, and their fititb, in the moHt eleratecl
BCDBe of the word. Would religion occupy a larger place is
their livcB ? Would they pray with more lorvout ? Would
they love God more ? In a word, would they he more agree-
able to Him who, above all, looks oa the heart? To all
these quegtiona the priest tried to anawer yes ; the man and
the Christian said, no.

But the priest is all-powerful ; he is so accustomed, with
those who wear the cassock, to control all the ideas, feelings,
and even the very first instincts of man. Under that habit,
man is no longer his own master. Intellect, heart, the whole
heing; is at the service of a mysterious power more formidable
than conscience, more imperiiins than God Himself. Grtdaine
therefore began to think how lie should enter upon the second
part of hia mission. He had accepted the office traosfeired
to him by Father Bourges, and did not feel himself justified
in setting it aade.

" This is great piety," said he, sighing,

" Ah 1 ar," said Galas, " there should be no praise between
Christians. God alone" —

" Alas 1 I did nit mean to praise you. I could not."

Here was the priest appearing ; / covld not. In trntli,
how can those who are lost be praised? And has a priest the
right to think that Protestants are not tost? Nothing has
ever been declared more distinctly or more frequently by the
Church.

"No," resumed he, "I cannot. The more I am touched
by your piety, the more my heart aches to think that it is
useless — that it is thrown away,"

This distress came so late that it would have been hard to
believe it.

"Lost!" said Galas. "Allow us to wait till God shall
decide. Lost ! it may he so. ' All those who say unto tne,

PRIESTS, INFmELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 359

Lord, Lolrd, shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.'
Christ has said so."

"You confess it?"

" It is written. But you have nowhere read that we can
know, while yet in this world, who shall enter or not enter.
The gate is strait, it is true " —

" You said, the gate"

"Well?"

« There is but one, then ?"

" I understand you ; and it is doubtless your Church I If
you are the gate, however, you are not the strait gate ; fwr
one of the reasons that alienate us from you, is precisely be-
cause we see the way to heaven made so smooth and so broad
with you. With your absolutions to all comers, your indul-
gences at all prices, your prayers and masses for those who
wish, and even those who do not wish for them, since those
who may have cared least about them in their lives may still
benefit by them after their death ; with all this, I say, you
have brought heaven down to such a low price that we really
could not, even were we to go over to you, but ask ourselves
if it is indeed the same heaven of which Christ spoko."

" We are, however, more accustomed," said Bridaine, " to
be accused of severity than of indulgence. Many of those
who went over to you two centuries ago did not appear, you
will allow, to seek a more severe religion."

" Many of those who came over to us in the first days of the
Reformation were still too much of Romanists to understand
the emancipation that it purposed bringing about. They knew
enough of it to throw off the yoke of the priests ; they had to
learn firom it to submit to the yoke of God. Your objection,
besides, would not be an answer to mine. You are severe ;
but where ? in details. You have added a thousand burden-
some commandfi to the laws of Ood, and sanctioned them de«

3o0 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTTOK".

signedly by the most terrible threatenings ; and what, in the
end, is the use of these threatenings, nnless it is to oblige yon
to multiply, on the other hand, the means of averting their
effects ? It is, therefore, true, in one sense, that you do not
widen the gate ; you narrow it, on the contrary, unreasonably.
But it is only to open beside it hundreds, thousands of pas-
sages, amongst which each individual may choose the one
that best suits his tastes, or even his passions; for there is
scarcely one of the latter which exclude fi'om heaven, provided
it is concealed under certain appearances, or a certain outward
garb. I will not enter into details, but what have you not
done, for instance, in public worship, to captivate the eyes,
ears, and all the senses — to offer people the means of being
pious, of sei-ving God, and saving their souls, in short — whDe
they are merely amusing themselves? Yet Christ has said,
' God is a Spirit, and they who worship him must worship
him in spirit and in truth.' What have you made of that
declaration?"

" We keep it," said the missionary, " for those who are able
to obey it. Unfortunately, there are but few."

" Whose fault is it ? Your people are such as you have
made them. If they require shows, it is because they have
always had them. Do we need them ? I go further ; do you
succeed in getting more devotion, more respect for worship, in
your churches, with all that never-ending pomp, than the Pro-
testants in theirs? That pomp becomes a necessity, but a
necessity the satisfying of which is not even attended with
any pleasure ; just as the man who is given to drinking re-
(piires more and more wine, while, after all, he drinks it with
much less enjoyment than he who drinks little and seldom.
At Rome, in your great ceremonies, do you know who are the
most affected by them? Protestants. One of our friends
told me, that at St. Peter's he shed tears ; and the Italians

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 361

who observed him laughed to see him weep. All, T believe,
would not have laughed ; but it is certain that he alone, to
judge by the general aspect of the crowd, was really and
deeply impressed. Never, sir, never will you have in your
cathedrals anything to compare to our assemblies in the
Desert. There are striking moments in your service — ^the
elevation of the host, for instance ; even then, those simulta-
neous genuflexions ought not to appear so mechanical. But
as for hours of silence, attention, stillness, you will scarcely
meet with it even in your convents ; and with us, it is in the
open air, in assemblies of several thousands of persons, that we
could show it to you. Speak to us of your singing, of your
learned orchestras I We, too, in some countries, can borrow
from music whatever it has to give that is most grand and
beautiftil. But we experience its truest and most sacred
emotions quite as much in our humble psalms. Our people
have no idea of desuing or asking for more. Even here,
within these walls, when we wish to renew both the remem-
brances and the emotions of a worship dear to us. — Listen I "

The most fortunate chance came suddenly to the support of
his words. The prisoners in the story above were, at this
very moment, raising their hymn of gratitude and love. And
whilst Bridaine, his eyes raised upwards, was listening in
astonishment to these solemn tones, the Calases all replied,
as we have already related, to their invisible companions.

They had concluded ; but Bridaine was still listening.

"Well?" said Galas.

" Well ?" said the missionary.

" Tears, I think."

" You confessed to me that one of your people had shed
tears at Rome."

"And which will be the most precious in the sight of
God?"

" I know not."

" Oh 1 yes, yon know — those shed without bo much being
done to produce effect. Our friend wa.a rather ashamed at
having allowed himself to be caught by those popish futilities.
Are you ashamed at having been caught by our psalm ?"

He smiled, and looked down.

" The circumstances affected me perhaps more than tba
singing," said he. " This prison — this holy dialogue through
the arched roof — this peace" —

"Do not seek for an explanation, I entreat yon," said
Calas. " Allow us to believe that you imderstood our feelings
that your heart joined ours in singing, and when you hear the
coldness of our worship spoken of, answer — but it is not for me
to dictate an answer to yon — answer from jour heart, for we
leave it to your own heart — say that you came here to mabe
Romanists of us, and that we, poor captives, have made you " —

Bridaine was about to expostulate.

"Do not be afraid," resumed Calas. "Did you think I
was going to say Protestant ? No ; we have not made yoo a
Protestant any more than yon have made ns EomaniBts ; we
have obliged you — that is all — to remain a Christian. It
that true?"

" My dnty" —

"Wliich? that of the Christian, or that of the prioBt ? Your
duty as a priest is to preach your doctrmos to us, and. to de-
clare us lost if we reject them. Your duty as a Christian is to
comfort us, to pray with us, to speak to us of God ; it ia— but
you know it far better than I. Choose between the t'wo,"

" Well, then, I have made my choice," exclaimed Bridaine.
" Yes, I have made my choice ; I will pray with you ; I will
be to you a comforter, a brother— nothing more, nothing less.
Let us pray, my friends — let us pray."

He cast himself upon his knees. All followed hia oxample.

1^

W PRIESTS, IHPIDELS, AND RTGUENOTa. 3G3

■V " God." said he, " this is one of Thy miracIcB. It is
■CSliy will that those who would never have knelt together
Waa death had broken down tlie barriers that separated them,
■,4^uld unite their hearts already here below in Biipplication
no Thee. Am I wrong, my God ? am I nnfaitliful to my
Kwows? No; I hail not promised to hate them. My vows
■tfeblige me to teU them that they are miataken, that they do

■ tkot serve Thee as Thou wouldest be served. But they love
I Thee, my God — they love Thee, us I would desire to love
k-^%pe. K we have not the same laith, we have the same love.
ui shall pray for them, Lord, as thfiy will pray for me. Sup-
I ^(Ht them. Confoimd injustice ; but may neither injustice,
l»or death, nor anything on earth, shake their confidence in

■ Why Divine goodness. May they live, suffer, and die as Thy
^•hildren, the redeemed of Thy dear Son. Amen."

I There was a long silence. His prayer was continued in all
l'<&ose hearts that were astonished they could thus agree.
I -They delighted to prolong it. Never, it seemed to tliem, had
L ^ayer more holy or more acceptable ascended to God.
I ' At length Bridaine rose. He repeated to them all that he
had just said to Grod, in language at once simple and elevated,
of which few possess the secret ; and when through the
vanlted roof a last chant of the prisoners above them re-
sounded, he was still telling them what happiness is to be
found in loving God, what joy in bearing the cross.

The cross of our poor prisoners was, indeed, to he very
heavy.

It remains for us to ascend their Calvary with them. Thek
blood will stain onr last pages; but we shall rejoice if their
spirit animates our last words.

On the 19th of February 1762, at two o'clock in the after-
noon, a cart, surrounded by guards, proceeded slowly through
a dense crowd towards St. Stephen's Church. In this cart,

L

364 PRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

seated beside four priests, were Kochette and the three
Greniers.

The sentence, which had been pronounced the day before,
had been intimated to them in the morning. They were con-
demned — ^the minister to be hanged, the others, being noble
{gentilshommes)^ to be beheaded. The Parliament, going
beyond all that had been prescribed in the case of ministers,
since they were no longer put to death on the wheel, had
decreed that Kochette, on his knees, before the porch of the
cathedral, " holding in his hands a taper of yellow wax, weigh-
ing two pounds," should publicly " ask pardon, for his crimes
and misdeeds, of God, of the king, and the judges." The sen-
tence ordered, moreover, that he should be led to execution
" barefooted and bareheaded, in his shirt, with a halter round
his neck, having labels in front and on his back, with these
words : Minister of the pretended reformed religion."

Of all his sufferings, that of going to death in snch an
accoutrement, had appeared to him the most cruel. Let them
kill him if they would ; but let them, at least, when they did
kill him, leave him his dignity as a man and a pastor when
under the eyes of the crowd. And yet it was in his own power
to escape from this disgrace, and this public humiliation, and
the gallows. He had but to abjure, and it would be all over.
To abjure I no ; not even that. He had but to announce hii
intention of abjuring, to speak of it as a thing possible, and
his life would have been spared.

Since sentence had been pronounced, he had been harassed
more pertinaciously than ever with this offer, with which he
had been persecuted for four months past. The priest whose
office it was to exhort him, had repeated it to him for the last
time, with tears and entreaties, as they left the prison. Ko-
chette thanked him for the interest which he appeared to take
. in his fate, but implored him to cease all further persecution

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 365

The tone of his voice, his manner, showed plainly that none
would succeed, even in giving him a temptation to overcome.
The jailers and guards were in tears. Perceiving one of the
soldiers more affected than the rest — " You are ready to die
for the king," said Eochette to him ; " why do you pity mc
because I die for my God?" The priest was completely
overcome. He had hardly got up into the cart when he
fainted. Another took his place.

The latter was one of those priests of whom so many are
still to be seen, who think themselves zealous because they
are harsh, pious because they are devoted to their Church,
holy because they have resisted, though with fearful strug-
gles, all the passions of youth. His pale and hollow cheeks,
his sunken eyes, contrasted with the calm and noble counte-
nance of him who was about to die. Eochette, too, was pale,
but it was that serene pallor which tells of resignation rather
than of conflict — of the ascendency of the spirit rather than
of the assaults of the flesh. He even gave a degree of dignity
to the garb of infamy which the executioner had thrown over
his emaciated frame. The shirt, the rope, the labels, all
were forgotten in looking upon his countenance, where the
glory of the martyr shone more and more brightly.

One thing only, from time to time, troubled his peace ; this
was the importunity of the priest. Having no more argu-
ments to bring forward, he persisted in trying to make him
kiss a crucifix. He continually put it under his eyes or to his
lips ; he forced him to turn away his face from it, and even to
push it away with his hand.

" In Gk)d's name," cried the sufferer, " let me alone I
Christ is here, in my heart ; you know it — you hear me call-
ing upon His name. What need have I of that image ?"

" Kiss it," repeated the priest " I do not tell you to adore
it — kiss it I "

366 raiscE betoke the

" But that IB what thoae do who adore it. The crowd will
believe that I am abjuring."

" Do you prefer shocking them by letting it be thought
that you deny Christ?"

" It is ynu who force me to appear to deny Him. It ia yon
who wish U' be able to eay, after my death, that I did deny
Him — tliat the Frolestants deny Him."

Then addressing the crowd, he said — " Friends, fiends,
you know that I do not deny Him. Deny Christ I He is my
Master, my God. I have lived, and I will die for Ham, It is
not He — no, no, it is not He that I put from me."

The other persisted, iind he had to beg^i again and again.

The same iinportimities had at first attended the three
brothers ; but the priests they had to do with were older and
calmer men, who were besides worn out by seTeral hours of
contest. They could speak to and encourage each other:
they even did their best to assist their iriend. The youngeat
had already tried, in order to relieve Rochette, to enter into
conversation with the priest beside him. What did he care
whether he brought upon himself the bitter aeal of this man,
provided his pastor could reach the scaffold more calm, and
i)etter able to sustain to the end the honoiw of their common
faith ? The other would not yield ; hut Rochette had guessed
the generous intention of the young man. He had rewarded
him for it by a smile and a glance heavenwards. That look
seemed to say, " Patience yet ; a few momenta, and we shall
be beyond their reach."

But these moments were to he cruel.

They arrived in front of the Cathedral. The cart stopped
in an empty apace, which was surrounded by a triple line of
soldiers. The eye could reach far into the interior of the
church, which was gloomy as the grave and solitary as i
desert. The front entrance was hung with black ; a few

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 367

tapers were burning in ihe background. A tall white cross,
spotted with black, advanced slowly, increasing in size as it
came forward, although the bearer of it was as yet invisible.

Kochette thought it was intended that he should go in ; he
declared that he would only yield to force. Then, as two
soldiers were coming forward to lay hold of him, he alighted,
and walked towards the gate.

" On your knees, sir,*' said the clerk of the court, who was
in attendance.

"Be it so ; but before God — not before that cross — ^not
before that -altar which is down there — not before the host
upon it."

He knelt down upon the pavement.

The great white cross still came on and on, but more and
more slowly. It seemed as if afraid of the light.

With it a sepulchral chant, a sort of hoarse and lengthened
sob, seemed to approach. The death-knell sent its shudder
through the church-tower. The oppressive silence within
extended to a distance. The same terror seemed to have
passed over every living thing, men and even horses ; every
moving thing seemed petrified.

" What do you want with me ?" said the minister ; fortius
gloomy influence began to communicate itself to him like-
wise, and he longed to shake it off.

" Wait," said the clerk.

The great cross had just stopped at the door of the church.
The chant ceased.

" You will repeat," resumed the clerk.

"What?"

" What I am going to read."

" We shall see. Qo on."

He read aloud : —

" * I, Francis Rochette, herewith ask pardon of Gk)d, of the

368 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

king aaid the judges, for having knowingly and seditiously
violated the edicts and ordinances ' — "

" Sir," interrupted the minister, " it is useless to go farther.
You will not make me repeat that."

" Repeat I" said the priest, harshly.

" Repeat it," said another priest, more mildly. ** It is a
mere form."

" I know of no mere form in what regards my conscience. '

He tried to rise ; but they held him down on his knees.
It was something fearful to see this man obliged to dispute
possession of his soul with those who were already masters of
his body.

The clerk did not know what to do.

" Come, I begin again," said he. " * I ' — '

" It is useless."

" Repeat it I " cried the priest.

He clasped his hands and bowed his head. They thought
he was going to obey.

But immediately, with a clear and firm voice, which was
heard twenty paces off, he said —

" I ask forgiveness of God for my sins. I have no forgive-
ness to ask of the king. I have always honoured him as
God's anointed. I have preached submission and patience.
I have said with the apostle : ' Fear God and honour the
king.' If I have disobeyed him in what related to my
ministry, it was because God himself and my conscience com-
manded me to disobey. I have committed no offence against
the laws. I forgive my judges. May God forgive them like-
wise ! "

" He has well said," cried the three brothers ; " we say the
same thing."

They had allowed him to conclude ; they allowed him to
riie.

PRIESTS, INFrDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 369

" Stop him 1 " said the clerk.

But he had already got up into the cart, and leaping at once
over the front seat where he had had to endure the persecu-
tions of the priest, he seated himself with his friends. The
astonished priests made room for him. His tormentor wished
that he should be forced to come back ; but the captain of
the escort, who was disgusted at these disputes, put a stop
to them by giving the order to move on. The cart was set
in motion. The church door closed. The condemned now
belonged to the executioner.

The Parliament had thought proper to make a great show
of precautions, under pretence of believing in designs of
rescue. This had, doubtless, been considered a means of
giving some probability to the pretended crime of the three
brothers, who, we may remember, were condemned as having
intended to save their friend by forcibly withdrawing him
from the hands of justice.

Instead, therefore, of the Place St. George, where execu-
tions usually took place, that of the Petit-Salin had been
chosen, which was less spacious, less accessible, and could be
filled with soldiers. A whole regiment had been stationed
there from before twelve o^clock. The City-guard and Horse
patrol, posted in the adjoining streets, were to lend their
assistance in case of need.

Two o'clock had just struck. The crowd was becoming
more and more compact, and the agitation that prevailed,
more feverish. In one of the streets, already crowded, that
led to the place, a priest was trying to proceed, but with great
difficulty, through the mob and the soldiers. Some refused
to make way ; others refused at first, then appeared to re-
cognise him, and eagerly opened a passage.

" Father Bridaine, I believe I " said a woman. " What is
he coming to do here ? "

VOL. II. 2 A

370 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

"He wants to see."

" You don't say so I a priest V*

" Why not ? it is a minister who is going to be hanged."

" He looks as if he were seeking for something. He is
knocking at the door of a house. Ah I at the Fortouls!
Protestants I What can he be going to do there ? They have
opened to him."

It was he, indeed. He had received a note that verv
morning, in these terms :

" A friend takes the liberty of oflFering Father Bridaine a
window for the afternoon at Fortoul House, near the Petit-
Salin. Not a word of this, unless he would be an informer."

He knew that Eabaut was at Toulouse. He had recog-
nised him in this note.

Should he go ? "Yes," he said to himself. Since, as a priest,
he accepted his share of responsibility in the severity of his
Church, he would at least oblige himself to admire, as he was
invited to do so, those whom she sent to death.

He had just entered the house, and had been taken np to
the second story. There, in the partial light of a passage, he
felt his hand taken hold of. A door opened, and he could see
who held it. It was Eabaut.

" I was sure of it," said he.

But Eabaut, without answering, and as if without listening,
led him to a window, before which a transparent curtain was
drawn. The murmur from the Place reached it ; but it was
becoming fainter and fainter. There was not silence as yet,
but the noise had ceased. The rolling of a cart was heard.

" Come," said the minister, " and see."

The cart had stopped. A priest had alighted from it.
Eochette was likewise alighting.

Eabaut then knelt down. His hands, which were clasped,
and leaning on the window, trembled. Tears flowed down

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AMD HUGUENOTS. 371

his cheeks. His eyes were fixed. His lips mummred uncon-
nected words. A last farewell to the friend, a last tribute to
the martyr.

Rochette, released from the importuniiy of the priest, had
performed in peace, for his three companions, the offices of
that ministry which he was about to seal with his blood.
From the cathedral to the foot of the gallows, he had not
ceased exhorting and comfortmg his friends. But for the
hideous dress he wore, it might indeed have been asked whe-
ther it was he who was about to die ; and even had he only
been there to comfort the others, his eloquence and composure
would still have been admirable.

" We are drawing near," said he. ** Yet a few steps — yet
a few moments — and all will be over. Your heart will not
fail you, I know ; but what is the source of your courage ?
Take care ; we are not merely to die as men of honour, but
as Christians.'' And as their procession came upon the
Square—

" We are arrived," resumed he. " The crowd is immense.
My friends I my friends I let there be nothing for glory — ^no-
thing for the crowd I — all for God I "

"Yes; all!" said they.

" We are stopping. No farewell — ^no ; we shall meet
again — ^we shaU meet again."

" We shall meet again I" repeated the brothers.

"We shall meet again!" cried he, as he left the cart;
and this time he was heard even in the house from whence
Eabaut was about to see him die.

Then Bridaine knelt down also. His head fell upon his
hands. He would no longer look; he hoped to hear no
longer. But abeady the minister had raised his death-song —
the same that had been heard on so many scaffolds, braved in
the same cause.

872 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

" This day is God's : let all the land
Exalt their cheerful voice " * —

And the three brothers continued with him : —

" Lord, we beseech Thee, save ns now ,
And make us still rejoice."

But at the last words, there were abeady but three voices ;
Rochette was expiring.

"Dead!" said Rabaut.

" Dead I " murmured Bridaine, without raising his head.
He was still kneeling.

The blow of an axe was heard. One head had fallen.

" Dead 1 " said Babaut. It was the eldest.

A second blow.

" Dead I " repeated he. It was the second brother.

The third stroke was delayed. Something like a dialogue
was heard between the condemned and the executioner.

" You have seen your brothers die," said the latter. " Do
not do as they have done. Betract I "

"Never!"

" One word, one single word, and you may live.''

"Never I"

" Betract I retract 1 " repeated, with tears, priests, archers,
commissioners of the Parliament, officers, soldiers, all that
surrounded the scaffold, all that filled the square. A feeling
of deep compassion had at last exploded. All the admiration
and tears that the three first deaths had merited, were con-
centrated upon the last of the three brothers now on the
scaffold.

But he had knelt down, and waited, with his head on the
block. The executioner bent down towards him for the last
time.

" In Gk)d's name, retract ! "

♦ P8.cxviii.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTB. 373

*' Do your duty," said his victim.

A la43t stroke was heard.

" Dead I " said Kabant.

"Dead!" repeated the missionary, and turning towards
ihe minister, he added, " Well ! are you satisfied ? Have I
suflFered enough ? Have you nothing more to require of me?"

" Yes," said Babaut; " I have one thing more to require
of you."

" Name it."

" You have seen the punishments. I wish to show you the
use of them."

^* Show me, then."

*' Where shall you be on the 20th of next month ?"

" At Nimes."

^ At Nimes ; good ! We shall meet ogam I "

At these words, which reminded them of Eochette, they
east one long look upon the still suspended corpse of him
whose last farewell they were to his companions in martyr-
dom.*

* The readers of tUa wevk who may feel interested fn eomparfng the aceomit here
giTen of the death of llochette and his three companions^ with the historical doenmentB
on the suliiectk are referred to the " Hiatoire dee Pasteurs du Desert," by M. N. Peyrat ;
Also in the Bulletin, for July and August 1653, de la Soci6t6 du Protestantisme Fnui^ais
—A society alveady mentioned in page 376 of the first voUoone. Copies are given of two
ori^nal documents, the one, the "Arrdt de la Cour du Parlement," and the other,
''Relation du Martyre de M. Francois Rochette, Ministre du Saint Evangile, eztnUte
d*une l^tre, daA6e de Toulouse^le 26 Ffiviier 1762. Both these documents are of tiis
bighest interest— IVanft

S74^ FRANCE BEFORE tHE REVOLUTION.

CHAPTEE XIX.

But the Hugrtenot blood had not ceased to flow. Before
that day of meeting appointed at Nimes, Toulouse was to
witness another death, upon which all the horror of posterity
has been concentrated. Galas was to efface the remembrance
of Rochette. " Nothing for the crowd ; all for CKxi,'' the
latter had said to the three brothers, and their names were
indeed soon only to be remembered by God. It has been
pleasing to us to contribute, by this work, to raise them to life
again in the remembrance of their fellow -men. We can add
nothing, we know, to their eternal happiness. They did not
need our tribute ; it is we who need to have our eyes fixed
upon those who have suffered for the cause of the Gospel. If
the scaffold has been thrown down, all those who dare believe
and speak openly must still expect to have to go through
struggles enough of another kind.

They were dead. What would be the result, it was asked^
for the Galas family ? An acquittal, said some ; a sentence
of death, said others. The latter were right. The two trials
really formed but one. In the state to which things had been
brought, the acquittal of the Galas would have appeared an
avowal of the iniquity of the former sentence. Those who had
passed sentence of condemnation in the first instance, were
themselves condemned to be unjust and cruel to the last.

Some days after, on the 7th of March, the Parliament gave

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 375

to the public, on the Place du Palais, one of those sights more
ridiculous than odious, of which we have seen a specimen at
Paris the year before. It was got up, to bum with great
pomp Rabaut's last pamphlet. His Calumny Confounded had
deeply wounded those whose plots it brought to light, and
whose sanguinary credulity it condemned. " The title alone,"
said the attorney-general, " and the signature, Paul Rabaut,
styling himself minister of the Gospel^ would be sufficient to
excite the severity of the laws against one who dares assume
a title prohibited to ministers, even at the period when they
were tolerated in France." The title in truth could not please,
and we understand the indignation it produced; but what
was meant by pretending that the " title alone" of the pam-
phlet "sufficed to excite the severity of the law"? Was it
not, then, a calumny to accuse the Protestants of sanctioning
murder ? And was not this calumny confounded by all that
the minister had said?* The whole indictment is drawn up
in the same tone. The most trifling accusations are mixed
up with the most serious ; the same feeling of animosity per-
vades and confounds everything.

Nothing could be, however, more curious than the efforts of
the attorney- general to prove that there was in all this no
religious persecution, properly so called. After having de-
scribed the assemblies of the Desert in his own way : ** You
have been witnesses and judges, gentlemen, of the spirit of
excitement and rebellion encouraged there. You have just
punished in a preacher, not the errors of his conscience, but

* The pastoTB of Geneva had interfered likewise on this oecaidon. They considered it
their duty to attest by a declaration, dated January 30, and countersigned by the Banm
de Montpeyrouz, re«ident Chargg d'Afl&dres of France, that no assembly nor synod had
ever permitted the Protestants to put their children to death. What matter for reflection
there is in the single fiict that such an attestation could be deemed necessary ! Beaa-
marchais was not, in truth, far wrong when he said, "that if he was to be accused of steal-
ing the towers of No^-Dame, he would b^in by making his escape, if he could, not
iMi^g sore whether his aoeusen might not begin by hangii](g him.*

376 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

the temerity of his conduct. It is not for reasoning incorrectly,
but for being seditious and refractory to the king's orders,
that you have condemned him/' The king, always the king ;
and who then had advised the king ? Still Chamay's sophisms ;
still the same abominable subterfuge that Jean de Lourmado
had taken up so sharply on the day of the Jesuit's death.

The last and decisive answer made to Calumny Confounded^
was to bum it.

Suddenly there was a great stir in front of the Palais de
Justice. It was Galas being brought there to undergo a last
examination.

He was so changed that he could scarcely be recognised.
For two months and more he had struggled energetically
against the weariness of imprisonment, and the sufferings of
his trial ; but towards the end their influence had only been
deeper and more rapid. Every week had added a year to
his life. The farrows of care had become more marked ; his
hair had become completely white.

He was coming forward slowly towards the great eptrance
of the Palais, his head bent down, when, raising his eyes by
chance, he stopped, turned pale, and seemed ready to fall. He
was held up, but having reached the steps, he could hardly
support himself, and almost required to be carried.

What had he seen? Nothing but the innocent fire on
which Eabaut's pamphlet was burning. But the noise, the
broad day-light, the crowd, the fire, of which he did not know
the object, those flames that rose up before him ; all, in short
combined to overpower him. The same executioner awaited
him; the same fire was prepared for him. This horrible
thought did but cross his mind ; but the blow was struck and
his weakened faculties were to retain its traces.

His judges, consequently, were agreeably surprised to find
no longer in him that clearness of mind, that imperturbable

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 377

composure which had hitherto disconcerted the most decided.
Pressed by insidious questions, he hesitated, and, two or three
times, appeared confused. Some inaccuracies escaped him,
which were hastily set down as contradictions. These were
pointed out to him with an eagerness which increased his
agitation still more, and he was quickly sent back to prison,
as if it had been feared that, recovering the thread of his ideas,
he would once more clear up what so much pains had been
taken to make obscure. He did not expostulate ; but he felt
that he had signed his own death-warrant.

The majority of the judges, notwithstanding, still hesitated
to pronounce sentence of death. Of the thirteen councillors
who composed the Criminal Court, there had hitherto only
been four or five openly decided ; but they constituted one of
those obstinate minorities which always carry the day.

When they assembled, two days after, to pronounce final
sentence, seven voted for death. This was numerically a ma-
jority ; but eight were required to constitute a legal majority.
Upon this, there ensued long debates, a fresh vote, and at last
one of the opposition passed over to the side of the seven.

It was therefore according to the strict majority required
by the criminal law of that day that sentence was about to be
given. The person who had thrown his weight into the
balance was M. de Bqjal, one of those who had appeared most
decided not to vote for death. M. de Bojal was an old man,
the oldest of the members of council, a good but weak cha-
racter. He was gained over, and — who knows ? — it was per-
haps his dinner hour, and the business had to be brought to
an end I

Calas wafl meanwhile surprised at being left in ignorance
of his fate. He thought that the sentence had been pro-
nounced two days before, that is, immediately after his last
examination. Suspense and anguish completely exhausted

378 :PftANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUtlON.

his remaining strength. What days! What nights! To
weigh again and again the same chances, to start at every
Boimd, to wish to hasten and again to put oflf the moment
when all uncertainty will be at an end, to feel carried on —
your hands tied, by a torrent which may at a breath either
swallow you up, or land you safe and sound on the shore — ^it
is neither life nor death ; it is a terrible mixture of all that is
most cruel in both.

It was in this state that the unhappy old man had been
wearing away for two days past. With his courage and
strength, he was losing even those feelings of the husband
and father, of which he had been such an admirable model
He wbo, till then, had only thought of his family, seemed,
for these two days past, to think but of himself. He was
absorbed in his apprehensions, which had changed into terrors.
Before destroying the man, — the husband, the father, and
almost the Christian too, had been destroyed.

Christian, husband, father, were to return. Uncertainty
was* destroying him; certainty was to bring him back to
himself and to his family.

It was evening. He had embraced his wife and children
mechanically, and scarcely observed the mournful pity which
his condition excited in them. He had been taken, as nsaal,
to the room where he was shut up for the night.

He sat down. From time to time a shudder went throng
his whole frame. Then he raised his head. His eyes seemed
fixed on some fearful object, — ^the scaffold doubtless, the
wheel, and all its horrible accompaniments. Then, relapsing i
into his stupor, he sunk back into his old arm-chair, of black |
woo<l, the gloomy witness of many similar agonies. He I
seemed no longer to see or hear, and to enjoy, for souk
moments at least, the melancholy repose of those who ha^|
ceased to feel or to think.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HtTG0ENOTS. 379

But beneath this apathy, terror was still awake. As the
sleeper still hears the hour strike at which he must awake,
he too heard, while he seemed in a dream, the slightest noise,
the least footstep that sounded in the prison, or, still further
off, in the street ; and any one of those noises, or those foot-
steps, might be a messenger of death.

At length all noise ceased. He was a little calmer ; he
had, thought he, some hours before him. He might sleep, —
perhaps for the last time, still he might sleep.

He was about to lie down on his bed. On his knees, at the
foot of his pallet, he tried to pray. He did pray, if not as
before these last sad days, at least rather better than the day
before. He still saw the scaflFold before him ; but he was
beginning to see something beyond it.

"My God," murmured he, "forgive me — the flesh has
conquered the spirit. I have trembled — as if Thou wert no
longer with me — I have trembled — ^I do still tremble. My
God, they have worn me out with their delays I — sustain
me"—

But all at once he stopped. He rose with a haggard
countenance, and clasped hands. The bolts of his cell had
creaked, and it was the first time that the solitude of his
nights had been interrupted at this hour.

Some one came in. It was Father Bridaine.

Hjs face was not gloomy enough to show a sentence of
death written upon it, neither was it cheerful enough to allow
the prisoner to suppose he came to pay an ordinary visit, still
less to bring good news.

Galas had, however, strength enough to ofifer him a seat ;
but he fell back upon his own.

" My brother," said the priest, " you seem ill."

" Yes — somewhat."

" Have you seen — ^your children ?"

380 FEANCE BEFORE THE RETOLUTION.

" Yes."

"Are they—well?"

Galas looked fixedly at him.

" They are well," said he, after a pause, and without taking
hifi eyes off him. Then, after another pause : " Have yon
nothing else ^ to — ask me ?"

He meant to tell me ; and the word which could not bo
uttered, might be read in his eyes.

" To ask you, no," said Bridaine.

** To tell me, then 1 " cried Galas, rising.

But he was no longer the same man. He knew his fate,
and he had regained, as he guessed it, courage to meet it.

" There is — a sentence," said the priest, with an effort.

" I knew it."

** A terrible — sentence."

« I knew it."

*' You knew it?"

" Your g^tation— your eyes fixed on the ground — ^tliose
throbbings of your heart which raise your gown. I saw —
I guessed — I know it."

But the mind was stronger than the body. He was obliged
to sit down again.

" It will be — ?" said he, with a voice scarcely audible.

" To-morrow," whispered Bridaine ; but so low that the
fiound might have seemed to be only one of the throbs of his
heart.

Galas had not moved.

" To-morrow," repeated he slowly, " to-morrow. My God !
to-morrow. It was, then, for the last time that I saw them —
that I"—

" No," said the priest eagerly, glad to have to break silence,
" no, you will see your wife and children once more — ^it will
be permitted."

PR1£STS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 381

" I will not see them again."

"Would you refuse it?"

" Yes ; my resolution has been taken for three months past.
I will not see them again. And wherefore should I ? — to die
four times over, five times — for Lavaysse is like one of my
children to me. To make them all five pass through death
in the terrors of mine — ^no, no, if I did not dread it on my
own account — this interview would be egotism — I should re-
proach myself for it upon the " —

The horrible word wheel had come to his lips. He stopped
as if he had called up the frightful phantom ; then, shaking
oflF, by a violent effort, that terror which was once more about
to make him its prey, he resumed —

" To-morrow, then, to-morrow — and at what o^clock ?"

" At noon."

" At noon ; so be it. Come — go on. Speak to me — you
see that I am calm."

" It will be at noon — but before" —

"Well?"

" The torture."

"The torture — to me I Is not the sentence, then, decisive?"

" It is."

"What then?"

" They desire to make you confess — ^your crime"—

" What need have they of that now ?"

" The law — custom. Several of the judges, besides, it is
said, only condemned you in the hope that you would con-
fess."

" And as I shall not confess" —

" Unfortunate man I — are you quite sure of it ?"

"Am I sure of it? — ^because I am condemned, do you
begin to think I am guilty ?"

"No, no.''

382 FRANCE BEFOBE THE BEVOLUTION.

** What were you saying, then ?"

" The torture ! — do you really know what it is ? Those
dreadful — excruciating pains— shall you be able to bear
them?"

" And those — ^that follow — must I not bear them f"

" You must — ^yes ; but those of the torture, you will have
but a word to say to put a stop to them."

** But that word would be a lie."

All that Bridaine could say was in vain. The victim could
not even conceive it possible that any degree of suffering
would force from him the avowal of a crime he had not com-
mitted.

That immoral and unhallowed weapon, which the century
was trying in vain to take out of the hands of justice, had
forced many an avowal from others.

This was not, however, one of those modem discussions
into which reason was only introduced with infidelity,
civilization with license of manners, new ideas with the
avowed contempt for all that was venerable. From the most
remote times, the torture had had eloquent antagonists. It
had been asked of what use it really was, and whether, even
supposing it to be useful, the disadvantages attending* it did
not outweigh the advantages.

We say, " supposing it to be useftd." Was it really so ?

It must be acknowledged that it was oftener usefril at that
time than it would be in our day. It made up, in many
cases, for th^ inefficiency of the police, and the negligence or
incapacity of the magistrates.

But, at the same time, the use of the torture contributed to
perpetuate that very negligence or incapacity of the judges,
and that general inefficiency of the police. A means of find-
ing out all that was required to be known, was felt to be at
hand — prompt, easy, universal, not infallible, all agreed, hot.

PRIESTS, INFroELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 383

on the whole, very good. Accuracy of proceedings, deep in-
vestigation, all the pains which justice is now obliged to
bestow on the trial of the lowest pickpocket, it was then re-
lieved of by ordering the torture to be applied.

Was the information thus acquired even certain? Good
sense says clearly that it was not, and experience said so
quite as distinctly as good sense. Every day the innocent
confessed, to retract afterwards ; every day the guilty per-
sisted in denying their crimes, and though crushed and ex-
piring, still denied. These were not trials, but fearful duels
between the judge and the accused, between suffering and
conscience. " The torture," said Ulpien, the jurist, who did
not however, by any means, err from excess of humanity,
" the torture is a fragile and dangerous weapon. The greater
part of mankind so despise suffering, that there is no means
of forcing the truth from them ; others, on the contrary, are
so alive to it, that they will confess anything rather than
endure it."

The necessity of regulating the use of it had been generally
felt. In France, in the eighteenth century, the following
were the rules established respecting it : —

In the first place, the application of the torture could be
ordered only when the crime was one liable to be punished
with death.

Secondly, it was required that the presumptions of guilt
should be " considerable." The deposition of a single wit-
ness, the confession of an accomplice, the declaration of a
criminal, were not sufficient.

Whatever new proof might arise, the accused could not
have the torture applied twice for the same fact.*

* In Spain, this decision was admitted by the secular tribunals ; but the Inquisition
evaded it When the patient had suffered all that he could suffer without expiring, the
torture was declared " tuspended' and it was ** resumed" as often as the judges thought
proper.

884

FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

If the accused were ill, in a weak state of health, either too
young or too old to endure the torture without danger of
death, he was only to be presented to it. He was then sup-
posed to have undergone it ; and eVen if fear had not made
him speak, he could not be condemned to undergo it in reality.
This was what was called the comminatory torture. Only
supreme courts of justice had the right of ordering it.*

The accused who was put to the torture before the final
sentence had been pronounced, could not, in case he did not
confess, be put to death. The judge was supposed to have
acknowledged, by causing him to undergo it, the insufficiency
of the proofs drawn from other sources. Having obtained
nothing more, he could not logically pass condemnation.!
This was the preparatory torture.

Finally, the preliminary torture was that which took place
after the sentence, previous to the execution. In that case,
the judge being supposed to have, on the contrary, sufficient
reasons for condemning, the non-avowal of the crime could
not invalidate the sentence. The accused was informed that
he had no longer any interest in maintaining a falsehood ; i^
therefore, he persisted in acquitting those accused with him,
after this last ordeal, it was a presumption in their favour.

Galas knew this, and on that account the torture appeared
less fearful to him. He could not save his own life, but he
might contribute to save his family.

" To-morrow, then," repeated he ; " to-morrow ! — ^yet tvhat
a thought I To-morrow — at this same hour — I shall be be-
fore God I To-morrow, I who am seated here — I who speak

* One of the reasons for which the Parliament of Toulouse had annulled the BenteM {
of the capitouls, was. that it was there said that Calas, his wife, and his son, ahooldi* I
put to the torture, but that Lavaysse should only be presented to it.

t He might, however, not acquit the accused, and keep him in prison. This midA |
course is not allowed in the present day. All criminal trials must be decided
tively or affirmatively ; and if the crime is not sufficiently proved, an acq^ttal is
avoidable.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 385

—who hear — shall no longer speak, see, nor hear. To be
stretched out, cold — I know not where. Where will they put
me ? Do you know ? "

" In God's name, none of these questions I " said Bridaine.
" Let the body be here or there, what matters it ?"

" What matters it, indeed ? Do I, then, seem so anxious
about it ? Come — ^if you know, tell me. What will they do
with me?"

" Burned — and the ashes scattered to the wind I "

"OGodI"

The unfortunate man had presumed too much upon his in-
difference to these horrible details. That fire, that complete
and rapid annihilation, terrified him. He did not shrink from
the idea of being a corpse ; but he shuddered at that of being
reduced to ashes.

" Yes," resumed he with effort, " yes, you are right. The
soul — ^the soul, and farewell to the body I The soul I will
they at least leave me master of it ? will they allow me to
die in peace?"

" Father Bourges has his duties to fulfil " —

"Must there absolutely be a priest?"

" Absolutely."

*' Must it absolutely be he ? Another " —

"Who?"

"Do you not understand me?"

" Thank you, my poor brother," said Bridaine with emo-
tion; " but that cannot be. I have spoken to Father Bourges :
he persists, he is determined. But I will say to him — ^yes, I
will say to him — what charity and humanity will, I hope, say
to him likewise. Yes, he will let you die in peace ; besides,
not far from you, his eyes fixed upon you, praying with yon
and for you, you will have — do you know who ? Here, read
this."

VOL. II. 2 B

386 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

It was a letter.
' " To me I " said Galas. " This handwriting I Ah, my
God!"

He read —

" Galas, you know your fate. I have done all that it was
possible to do. My efforts were not only destined to be use-
less — I was condemned to contribute to your ruin. My pam-
phlet only irritated your judges ; your examination the day
before yesterday, I am told, was influenced by the agitation
into which you were thrown at sight of the flames that con-
sumed it. God has confounded my designs, as He has con-
founded those of wiser men. Let us bow and adore.

" Galas, I can now only offer you my prayers. They will
accompany you until you no longer need them. Do you,
tlien, pray for us, for the Ghurch, for those whom you
will leave under the sword of the wicked. To see you, to
speak to you, is impossible. God is my witness, that I would
not have shrunk from the attempt, had it been only perilous.
But it would be madness ; it would be tempting God. I owe
mysolf to our churches; I owe myself to that son who is
{ibont to commence the warfare, and to whom you and
Roch(itte will have shown liow a Christian can die.

" Nevertheless, I could not make up my mind to be onlv
with you in spirit. Your friend will see yon, Galas, at your
last moments. Quite close to the scaffold, there is a house
well known to you; look towards it if you can. There,
behind a curtain, he will be who would fain kneel beside
you."

" Yes, I shall look,'' said Galas. " May Heaven bless him,
and bless you likewise, who brought me this letter."

He read it once more, and pressed it to his lips.

" I shall keep it," resumed he ; " it shall not leave me."

" Do not think of that. What if it were found ?"

PBIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS, 387

" True. What shall I do with it, then ? "

"Bum it."

He read it over a second and a third time, then put it close
the lamp, then drew it back to read it once more.

" Make haste," said the priest. " Some one might come."

The paper took fire. Some ashes fell upon the table. It
was over. This instantaneous destruction appeared to strike
the condemned man.

"Nothing left!" said he. "Ah I it is consumed I — con-
sumed I But an instant ago I held that letter in my hand —
saw it — read it. Where is it now?"

" 2%ere," said Bridaine, laying his hand upon his heart.

"Yes, you are right. There, and it cannot be taken
thence."

" Well, then, take coui-age I You, too, when nothing but
ashes will be left of you in this world, will be in the bosom of
your God ; and you can never be taken thence."

The last day had arrived. Galas, at an early hour, had
received official notification of the sentence.

"The Court has condemned and condemns Jean Galas,
charged and convicted of the crime of homicide, by him com-
mitted upon the person of Mark Antony Galas, his eldest
son, to be delivered into the hands of the public executioner^
who shall place him, bareheaded and barefooted, in his shirt,
in a cart appointed for that purpose, and take him before the
principal entrance of the Church of St. Stephen, where, being
on his knees, and holding in his hand a taper of yellow wax
of two pounds' weight, he shall cause him to ask pardon pub-
licly, for his crimes and misdeeds, of God, the king, and the
judges ; this done, he shall again place him in the said cart,
and convey him to the Place St. George, where, upon a
scaffold erected for that purpose, he shall break his arms, legs,
♦highs, and loins ; he shall stretch him upon a wheel erected

388

FBANCE BGFOIiE THE RKVOLTTnON.

close to tlie Bcaffold, liis face tnmed towarda heaven, there to
remain bo long aa it Bhall ploase God to prolong his life, in
pain and penance for his said crinieK and misdeeds, and to
serve as an example to the mcked, and make them afraid ;
and his dead body shall then he thrown into a Imrning
fire, prepared to that effect upon the said Square, to \>e there
eonsnmed hy the flames, and his ashes afterwards scattered
to the winds. Prior to which, Galas shall be put to the
torture, both ordinary and extraordinary, in order to draw
from him the conieasiou of his crime, with its accomplice*
and circumstances. He is condemned, moreover, to paj a
fine of a hundred aous to the king " — probably, the hire of
the wheel 1

The judges had, however, added, in their clemency, — that
instead of remaming on the wheel " so long as it ahould please
God to prolong hia life," tha criminal should be strangled at
the end of two hours 1

Whilst the wheel and the stake were preparing- on the
Place St. George, all was ready in the chamber of torture.

There all those hideous instruments of suffering, that a
century more humane than its predecessors had succoe&ively
condemned to inaction, had remained spread out, — racks, pin-
cers, pulleys ; the boot, with its iron-boimd plunks, chafing-
diaheB of all sizes, chains of all weights, without reckoning
that which had no name in the sanguinary jargon of the tor-
mentors. Everywhere, on the walls and pillars, were rings
and hooks. A low, arched ceiling, damp and blackened, by
the vapours from the chafing-dishes, increased still more tho
gloom of this fearful arsenal.

In the midfit of it, tho lep? fastened down with cramps of
iron to the floor, stood a strong, high arm-chair, flirnished
with iron rings and leathern thongs. The sufferer tvUo was
teated there had only his tongue free, that he might confess.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 389

Two men were at this moment examining this dreadful
throne. One was the executioner, the other the capitoul,
David.

We have seen with what hatred the latter was animated
against the Protestants, and against Galas in particular. He
it was who had ordered the arrest, who had carried on the
first proceedings, and who, after the sentence of the capitouls
had been annulled, had left nothing undone in order to influ-
ence the Parliament. As he could not be judge, he was
determined to remain executioner. Not but that he began
to feel, with some alarm, what a responsibility he had taken
upon himself. His hatred did not go so far as to wish to
condemn an innocent person ; he only desired — ^but that de-
sire was ungovernable — to have to punish the guilty. What
he desired, he had believed ; what he had believed, he began
to perceive was not a certainty to his mind. Others, as
Bridaine had said, had condemned Galas in the hope that he
would confess ; but with the passionate capitoul it was not
merely a hope ; — ^he was determined that the condemned
Miould confess; he was irritated with childish rage at the
possibility that he might not.

Hence the fearful interest that he took in all the prepara-
tions for the torture. He wished to see, touxjh, try them. He
had seated himself in the great arm-chair ; he had put on the
terrible implements, and by his orders the executioner had
tightened them €0 much as to force a cry from him. Thi«
pain did him good. It promised, in energetic language, that
Galas would confess.

In what did these implements consist? — in what was called
the wedges, the only, or almost the only ones in use throughout
the kingdom. Nothing could be more simple. Four planks,
a rope, a dozen wedges and a hammer. Each leg was put
between two planks ; the whole was flEUBtened together, and

390 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION,

the wedges, one by oney were driven in between the two middle
planks.

The ordincpry torture consisted of six wedges^ the extraor-
dinary of twelve. On the first being driven in, the pain was
tolerable, at the second it began to be horrible ; at the twelfth,
when it was carried so far, the legs were completely crashed.

" Is everything ready ?" said the capitotd.

" Everything, sir,'' said the executioner.

" What are you doing there ? I think you are greasing the
wedges ?"

" That they may go in better.''

" Pshaw ! they always go in easily enough. You have
only to strike harder. Are you not greasing all?"

" Here are six ; it is more than we shall want.*'

" Grease them all."

" It is useless ; we shall not get to six."

" Do you think he will confess?"

" On the contrary" —

"Well, then?"

" The commissioners will have the torture stopped. He is
sixty-three."

" Grease them, I tell you, grease them ! " cried the capitoal.
" Do you too, think that justice is going to stop half-way ?
I shall be there myself."

He had no orders to give, because the business was in the
hands of the Parliament. His only right was his hatred.

The executioner set about greasing the other six wedges.

He had just finished, when footsteps were heard, at first
confused, then regular, like those of a procession moving on.
This procession was approaching. The steps, resounding
through the empty passage, seemed slower, and more and
more solemn.

At last, two soldiers appeared, who posted themselves

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 391

eacli side of the door. Behind them came two criers, then
two commissioners of the Parliament, in their gowns, then the
prisoner between two priests. Father Bourges and Father Cal-
dagues. A physician, a clerk, and two of the executioner's
assistants, followed by four soldiers, brought up the rear.

The commissioners took their seats on a raised platform.
The clerk seated himself at their feet. The executioner and
his two assistants stood motionless on either side of the great
arm-chair. Galas and the two priests were standing before
the tribunal.

" Clerk," said the first commissioner, " read in the sentence
what has reference to the present act."

The clerk rose and read aloud : — " * Prior to which the said
Galas shall be put to the — ' " &c.

" Galas," resumed the commissioner, " you know why you
are here. It is enjoined upon us to force from you that c(m-
fession which you have hitherto refused us. For the last
time, do you acknowledge yourself guilty?"

" For the last time," said Galas, " I am not."

" Your accomplices ?"

" There can be no accomplices where there is no crime."

" Proceed," said the judge.

The executioner approached.

" Brother," said Father Bourges, " what has just been de-
manded of you in the name of human justice, we now demand
of you in the name of God, and for the sake of your soul's
salvation. Gonfess."

" I should tell a lie."

" Give glory to the truth."

" I do so by denying."

" Proceed," repeated the judge.

He was led to the arm-chair ; he sat down in it. A moment
after, he was closely bound to it by all the parts of his body,

392 PRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

and the horrible implements were fastened tightly round hi«
legs. The executioner took a wedge and drove it in, but a
very little way, between the knees ; then raising the hauuner,
he turned to the commissioners, made an obeisance, and
waited. He required, according to custom, a third and last
order.

The commissioner had evidently a struggle in his mind.
With his eyes fixed upon Galas, his look of almost entreaty
seemed to ask as a boon for that confession which he shrank at
forcing from him, and which he was, besides, almost sure not
to obtain by tortures. At last, to the great surprise of those
accustomed to frequent that place, he came down from his
seat, and approached the sufferer.

" Galas," said he, " this does not belong to my office. I
ought to have given the signal. Spare me the pain of giving
it. Confess."

" Sir, I thank you," said Galas. " This is compassion which
I did not expect to find here. But you would be the first to
feel surprised at that confession which you ask me to make."

" Surprised ?"

" Yes. Your office is to believe me guilty, and to make me
confess if you can. But apart from that office — and you say
that you are apart from it at this moment — ^I see clearly that
you know I am innocent."

" Proceed !" cried the judge, as he returned precipitately to
his seat. And he was scarcely seated before the wedge was
entirely driven in between Galas's knees.

" First of the ordinary," said the clerk.

The executioner took a second. Two blows of the hammer
had been sufficient ; this time four were required. Galas grew
pale, his features became contracted.

" Second of the ordinary," said the clerk.

There was no room left at the upper end of the planks.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 393

The legs were stretched out upon a sort of stool, iu order to
operate upon the whole length. The third wedge was intro-
duced with six or seven blows of the hammer. The sufferer
groaned ; the perspiration rolled down his face.

" Third of the ordinary," said the clerk.

The executioner turned once more to the commissioners.
At every third wedge, the questions were to be renewed.

" Galas," said the second commissioner, for the first seemed
no longer either to see or hear, " do you confess?"

The sufferer shook his head.

" Go on," said the judge.

The fourth wedge entered without much difficulty ; but it
was near the ankle. Galas gave a cry.

" Fourth of the ordinary," said the clerk, still registering.
Fifth, sixth wedge — eight or ten blows for each. Galas had
no longer groaned nor cried. A convulsive trembling agitated
his whole body.

There was a fresh pause and fresh questions. The same
movement of the head, and the same silence.

" Gro on, " said the second commissioner.

A seventh wedge — an expression of frightftd pain began to
manifest itself in Galas's face.

" First of the extraordinary," said the clerk.

An eighth wedge ; but as the executioner brought it near
to the planks —

" Stop," said the first commissioner.

The capitoul had remained motionless, but dreadftdly agi-
tated. Scarcely did Galas move his lips, but he seemed ready
to rush forward and catch the yes that his conscience was so
eager for ; and that yes had not been spoken — and he must
give up expecting it — and they had not gone further than the
eighth wedge I

"Stop! "cried he; "why?"

894 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

" Stop," repeated the commissioner.

But as the executioner was about to unfasten the cord, the
capitoul pushed him back.

" That man is not in danger of death," said he. " Physician,
come here."

" Physician," said the commissioner, " you are at our orders,
and not at those of this gentleman." Then, addressing the
executioner, he said, " Unfasten him."

It was time — Galas was fainting. The capitoul went away
furious.

They transported Galas to the bed of resurrection. It was
upon it that those who were condemned to death, whom the
torture had deprived of consciousness, were raised up to life,
for the scaffold.

It was long before he revived.

" God," said he, " stiU ahve I I had hoped— it is not
over yet I"

But the head only had returned to life — ^the body remained
benumbed ; the legs were as if dead. Nothing, however, was
broken. Large bruises alone testified to the fearful pressure.
Jn some places, the blood flowed.

" My brother," said Father Bourges, " you have been very
near death. God has permitted that you should return to
life ; it is a respite that He grants you — profit by it."

" If you would have me profit by it, in God's name, leave
me I"

" Gonfess, confess I "

"Again I''

" Leave him, gentlemen," said the commissioner. ** Clerk,
read the minutes."

The clerk read :

" * and the said Galas has persisted in denying his

crimes and misdeeds; in testimony of which,' " &c. &c.

PRIE3T3, INFroELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 395

He was asked if he had any observations to make. He
answered, "No."

Would he sign ? "I will try," said he.

A pen was given him. His hand was already on the paper,
when, suddenly shaking out the ink from it, he dipped the
{»en in the blood which flowed from his wounds, and wrote :

" / am innocent

" Galas."

396 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

CHAPTER XX.

Symptoms of that struggle between justice and hatred
which had been going on in the mind of the capitoul David,
were beginning to be perceived in that fanaticized population
of which this same man had been both the leader and the
instrument.

The condemnation had not been received, by any means,
with the enthusiasm it would have excited in the latter days
of October, in the midst of the gloomy pomps with whicli the
clergy had fed the imagination of the multitude. The me-
morials of the lawyers, Rabaut's pamphlet, the constancy of
the accused, the violence of their adversaries, all had contri-
buted to create a majority in their favour in the enlightened
public. This change had had time to exert its influence over
the less enlightened classes. They did not absolve, but they
dared not condemn. The populace alone remained hostile;
but a delay of five months had blunted that hatred, and, on
the whole, there was a more general disposition to forgive the
judges if they did not condemn, than to rejoice if they did.

From the morning of the day, a painful degree of agitation
was manifested in the town. The partisans of the condemned,
who became more numerous every hour, ventured to speak ;
few of his adversaries took the part of the judges openly and
warmly. The greater number would have preferred a longer
delay. All awaited with impatience and agonizing anxiety
the result of the torture.

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 397

The emotion was therefore great with which the news was
received, shortly before the hour of execution, that Galas had
resisted the torture, and that his first and last word had been
to declare himself innocent. Thousands of persons had, like
the capitoul, longed for the day when they should be relieyed
from that responsibility which tormented them, and, on the con-
trary, they felt it becoming heavier and more fearftd than ever.

It was not therefore, as is usually the case, curiosity alone,
nor horror, that impelled the crowd towards the place of
execution. Galas, in his dying moments, was about to be the
judge of his judges — and not only of his judges, but of all
those who had contributed, directly or indirectly, to his con-
demnation. If he confessed, his condemnation became a great
act of popular justice ; if he died still denying the crime, that
very sentence would be for ever the condemnation of those
who had themselves pronounced it, or caused it to be pro-
nounced. " Let his blood be upon us I" they had said in their
first excitement ; and now that his blood was about to flow,
they trembled lest they should see it fall in curses on their
own heads.

Nor did his demeanour or his words leave them any hope.
At twelve o'clock at noon, he had ascended the fatal cart,
and bowed and waved his hand to the crowd that pressed
round the entrance of the prison. Two or three cries of death,
uttered at some distance, met with no response. The prisoner
had only had to make his appearance, in order to change into
pity and respect all the hatred left in some few hearts. When
the procession moved off, he cast a last look upon that ill-
omened house where he left behind all he had loved on earth.
That look completely won over the crowd.

" Take courage I " cried but a voice. " They will be spared."

" Qod grant it I " said he ; " but they are not more iimocent
than I am."

398 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

They set out. From the midst of the crowd, questunu
were put, now to him, now to the priests.

" Have you confessed ?" they cried to hinu

" No."

," Shall you confess?"

" What would you have me confess ?"

Then the questioner was silent, glad or sorry, accordiDg as
he had hoped or feared to believe him guilty. In other
instances, it was to the priests that the same questions were
put.

" Has he confessed ?"

They made signs in the negative.

" Will he confess ? what do you think ?"

They raised their eyes to heaven. " His secret is between
him and his God," they seemed to say ; but their thoughts
went further. They began to be convinced that they weie
going to witness the death of an innocent man.

They questioned him, therefore, no more. They only re-
peated in a low and agitated voice, the service for the dying.
They recited some fragments of psalms to him, but in French.
Galas listened and prayed; but while he humbled himself
before God, he did not for a moment cease to maintam.
before the multitude, the assurance of the righteous and the
dignity of the oppressed.

When called upon to ask pardon publicly for his crime, he
refused, like Rochette, to repeat what was read to him. Like
Rochette, he only knelt to ask forgiveness of God, and de-
clared that he had no forgiveness to ask of man.

They drew near the spot. From street to street the
silence became deeper, and the crowd more sad and still.
When the procession arrived at the Square, nothing was heard
but sobs.

When Galas appeared on the scaffold, and contemplated tljc

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 399

crowd with a countenance even more serene than when he
left the prison, then, had the multitude been called upon to
decide the fate of him whose death they had come to witness,
there would have been but one voice — one cry — and he
would have been carried back in triumph to his liberated
children !

But the executioners had abeady laid hold of him. He
was stretched out upon the platform which was made of thick
beams of wood, and tied down by the hands and feet to
strong iron rings arranged in the form of a cross.

He had easily recognised the window with the white cur-
tain, where Kabaut was to be. He saw it as he lay on his
horrible bed.

The priests were kneeling down, praying, at two of the
comers of the scaffold. The executioner had taken his iron
bar. The crowd became agitated. Some turned away ;
others covered their feces. No one would look on at the first
stroke. It was heard, followed by a fearful cry — then a
second, then a third ; but there were no more cries — the suf-
ferer was becoming accustomed to the iron bar — the spectators
to see it fall.

At the first stroke, at the first cry, the curtain had been
partly opened. Galas had seen his friend, and a little behind
him an open Bible. Kabaut showed him with one hand the
Bible, and with the other heaven. At the last stroke, the
curtain was closed.

There was still a moment more painful than that of the
blows to be gone through ; it was when the executioner came
to remove those limbs to carry them, broken as they were, to
their last bed of suffering.

But the executioner, more humane than the judges, had
thought of means to render this fearful operation less painful.
A sheet was passed under the body of Galas, and thus he was

400 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

carried, stretched out at fiill length, to the wheel. There
was still an expression of dreadfiil pain in his face, but this
mournful attention had not escaped him. He repaid it by a
movement of the head ; and as if he had forgotten that his
limbs were broken, he seemed as though he would stretch out
his hand to seize that of his executioner. One thought was
still in his mind. Should he still see the window ? Would
it be granted him to look at it when expiring ? He looked —
it was on his right, and he was even nearer to it.

One o'clock had just struck. The hour fixed for his death
was three.

The priests had drawn near to him ; Father Bourges was
in tears. Every doubt remaining on his mind had vanished
before the constancy of the martyr. He contemplated him in
silence. What could he say to him ? What consolations or
exhortations could he offer? Purely Christian consolations
he would receive with joy, but to administer such only would
be to confess to him that he gave up offering others, and that
a dying person might, after all, do without them. Father
Bourges had not sufficient elevation of mind, like Father
Bridaine, to get over this inevitable conflict between the
Christian and the priest. In his cruel sincerity, he was
alarmed to feel himself so near believing in the salvation of an
obstinate heretic ; he dreaded still more, therefore, himself to
confirm those hopes that it would strictly have been his dut}*
to take from him. And yet, convinced as he was of his inno-
cence, and witnessing his resignation, what could he do, if he
spoke to him at all, but point out heaven open to receive
him ? He therefore said nothing more to the sufferer ; he
only wept.

Calas, thanks to a state bf complete immobility, suffered
less than at first. He could not constantly see the window,
ior fatigue obliged him to let his head fall, ^^ the face towards

PRIESTS, rariDBts, A

> HUOHEHOTS.

401

' ieaven," as the sentence required ; but the expressiim of calm
had returned to his ooaatenanoe. He was praying.

Twice already Father Caldagnea had again begun f» speak
to him ; twice bad Father Bonrg'es interfered to moderate
tile importuaato zeal of his brother confessor. Caldagues
was one of those priests who have more faith in the Church
tLan in God — in the pardons of the Cbircii than in God's
forgiveness. He required of Calas neither abjuration nor
repentance ; let him but confess, never mind what, and
all would he right But Calas did not answer ; Calas con-
tinued to pray. He confessed to Him who is great enough to
know all, and powerful enough to forgive all.

But from time to time, his prayers were interrupted by
agonizing pain. His face became contraoted, his eyea wan-
dered ; the body was exercising its last rights over the soul,
and the soul was impatient that it could not yet escape from it.

Once, in particular, the Bufierer, consumed by burning
fever, his eyes scorched, and wildly disordered, cried out : —

"What o'clock is it?"

" Brother," said Father Bourges, " you have began so well,
do not end differently. Yes, it is long — horribly long — but
eternity is far longer — and it is drawing near — it will soon
begin for you. Will you remember, a few hours hence,
whether you had a little less or a little more suffering? No;
do not ask what o'clock it is — it is ite hour to pray — the
hour to offer up to God, if you are Lnnocent " —

"Still i^" said Calas, with a look of reproach,

" Well then, no more ifi," resumed the Father. " It is the
hour to offer up to God the sacrifice of your sufferings, since
you are innocent — the hour to throw yourself into His arms."

He stopped, as if afraid of what he had just Siiid. A heretic
received into the arms of God I Waa not even the very
thought heresy?

VOL. n. 2 c

40S

FRANCE BEroitK TBS KtmLOTIOir.

oiuchl -

m

" Go on," snid Calos, " your words do me good."

But ho bent down his eyes, aad remained ailent. The prii
iiad returned.

" Yes," resumed Calas, " they do me g;ood. I asked the
liour, did I not? I hardly recollect — I was suffering so tuuchi -
But I WHS ivTong — I was wrong — it was mtirmuring,
will forgive me. My God 1 did not Thine own Son pray \i
the bitter cup might pass froni Him? But I did not pray-^
murmured. God, Thou punifihert me. I asked the 1
— ^there it ia."

Two o'clock did indeed Btrike at a neighbouring churcli, ^

" There it is," pursued he. " I tbonghl I had but a short
tirao yet to Buffer — still an hour — a whole hour. But ia it
then really only an hoar since they put me here?"

" Scarcely," said the priest. And as he sud these words,
two o'clock struck at another church.

" Again 1" exclaimed Calas ; " again. Well, I thank Thee,
my Gnd I There are many others in the grave, who would
wish they haii thus been warned, hour by hour, of the momenl
of their death. I thank Thee, my God ! But grant that I
may at least give this hour which Thou still grarit«Bt me,
wholly to Thee 1 Suffer not that pain should absorb m*, or
cause me to wander; and then, this hour that man leaves to
nie from cruelty, I shall Eeel that Thou hast left it to e

Thus did Oaks speak and pray ; and from that time, t
ther it was that his sufferings were really less acute, i
he had more strength given him to bear up agunst theii
intensity, his peace appeared no longer troubled. Now he
was silent, his eyes turned heavenwards ; then closing them,
he whiB[»ered long and fervent prayers ; again, turning towM
the window, he united in thonght and desire with him «
eyes were ever resting upon him.

m« in

pmEErrb, rariUELa, anu mroufcNOTa.

403

" Well, brotber," said the priest, at length, " is the sacrifice
iiow complete ? Ib your resignation entire, absolute?"

" I hope so," Bftid he. " I wish I were sure of it,"

" Tou may."
. "How?"

" If you were told that you should remain there two hours
longer, what would you do?"

Calas thought a. moment.

" I should acquiesce," said he,

"Fully?"

" Yes, — fully."

" It ia well, brother, you have been brought where God
would have you. Trial has homo Iruit — it may now cease."

It waa indeed about to ceaae. The fire was just lighted,
and Citlae felt the rope move that was about his neck.

lie then turned towards the window. The cnrtaiu was
moving. A hand, the fingers of which alone were visible,
yr&B prepared to put it aside.

But suddenly the ladder was heard to creak. A hurried
Mep resounded tm the scaffold. Calefi turned half round. It
yrae the capitoul again, pate, almost beside himself, frightful
to look at. lie rushed up to the wheel, aud cried out with a
f Toice of thunder —

" Unhappy man 1 the stake is ready — yet a few momenta,
and your body will lie in ashes. Before God who will judge
you, confess — confess !"

The eyes of the dying man were quickly turned from him
to the spot whither his heart fled. At the same moment, the
tope was drawn tightly round his neck. A few moments after-
wards he was no mure.

But the curtain had opened again. He hod seen his pastor
mce more, one hand on ike Bible, and the other raised to
1 heaven.

404 FRANCE BEFORE THE BEVOLrTiOK.

Ten days later, the aOth of March 1762, a man was clin
ing, very early in the morning, tlie rocky path, where Ireachc
had well-nigh caused Rabaut, some years before, to fall i
the hands of the Marquis de NarnierB.

That man, though Btill young, bore the marts npon 1
brow of that premature age, brought on by the
sorrow, and fatigue ; but an energetic spirit, and t
of Joy shone through these furrows.

He seemed affected. He stopped, from time to time, either
to take breath, or to look round him ; yet he did not Beem ns
if looking out for the road. The place was evidently familiar

WheD he arrived near the cavern, his emotion redoubled.
He coTild hardly support himself; he seemed even to hemtate
whether he would go on. At last, as if suddenly making a
great effort to master bis feelings, ho increased his pace, and
went to throw himseK on his knees at the spot where old
Fabre, on the day of treachery, had sat down mourning for

The traveller wept too ; he seemed to ask forgiveness of
Gwl for some great sin. His forehead was bent lower and
lower down to the rock, which was wet with dew. His whole
body seemed bowed to the earth. His hands trembled as his
lips moved. His eyes, at first raised to heaven, were now 6xed
on the ground. A man, whom he could not see, had just come
out of the cavern. After examining bim for an instant, &oin
its entrance, he approached him, but slowly and witbont noise.
He bent down towards him, as if to hear his prayer, afitef
contemplating him with emotion. At last, he l^d his hand
upon his shoulder —

" Bmyn 1" said he.

Bniyn^for he it was — rose quickly.

" Fabre 1" he exclaimed.

PRIESTS, INFroELS,'AND HUGUENOTS. 405

He drew back, but Fabre held out his arms to him, and he
threw himself into them, weeping.

" And you too," said he, " forgive me I — you of whom I
was thinking at that very moment. You — ^but," resumed he,
" how are you here ? Are you free ? Have you escaped ?"

" I have been set at liberty," said Fabre.
. "By whom?"

" People in very high stations have interested themselves
on my behalf. They pleaded, it would seem, my" —

" Yes ; your sacrifice."

** Well, I am free."

"Since when?"

" Since the 10th of this month."

"OGk)d! the very day"—

" Yes, Galas — I know ; but his blood will not have been
shed in vain. He would have willingly shed it, and of his
own accord, if he had known what his death was to do
for us."

"So you think "—

"I hope. The indignation is universal. At Toulon, at
Marseilles, in all the towns through which I passed, the out-
cry against the Parliament of Toulouse is universal. But
that is not all. People are inquiring into the laws by which
we are governed ; they are astonished and indignant at finding
them still in force. At Montpellier, the Prince de Beauvau
desired to see me. He praised me far too much ; but all his
praises were promises of toleration and peace. Everywhere
I was told that we have reached the close of our sufferings."

" It was not the priests, my poor fellow, who told you
so ; and the priests are more powerful than the Prince de
Beauvau."

" I only told you that I hoped, not that I was sure. We
are advancing towards an era of toleration — ^there can be no

406 fhancb befors ths ret^lution.

longer a doubt of it ; but it may still be far off. The Jesuits
are about to be banished, but the spirit of persecution will
not be banished, for it is in reality not theirs only, but that
of all the clergy.* Let us take advantage of the moments of
peace that God grants us, and bless Him for them. Is it not
He who holds all hearts and spirits in His own hand ? The
same Marquis de Narniers, who has done us so miteh harm,
is now become one of our warmest friends."

" I know it," said Bruyn.

" But what you do not perhaps know, is that the nasembly
of to-day is to be held under his protection. He has taken
measures accordingly, with all the commanding officers in
the province. For the first time, for nearly eighty years, we
are sure of not being disturbed. Is it not a blessed day for
our churches, Bruyn ?"

"For you too, Fabre?"

" And for you too, Bruyn. The Church resembles heayen
— ^there is more joy in her bosom for one sinner that repents,
than for — ^but do not let us speak of just persons — for ninety
and nine of His children who have remained faithful to Him.
You bad not returned to this country before, Bruyn?"

** No ; and I had at last taken a vow never to return
to it.''

" And who has made you break your vow ?*'

" It was he. I was at Paris. He wrote to me — take
this and read it.

" * The 20th of March, my dear Bruyn, will be a great day
for me. It is fixed for the ordination of my eldest son, the
friend of your childhood. I wish it to be likewise the day
of your public reconciliation to the Church, that has wept
over you as one lost. I ask this as a friend ; if necessary,

* We hare seen elsewhere, how the clergy struggled, up to the pwiod of the ReTolatioo.
agiUmt the tolerant Hmn of Louis XVL

PmESTS, INFIPEL8, AND aUGUBNOTfl. 407

I require it of you, in virtue of the authority you have given
me over your conscience. Come— it may be that God has in
reserve for you more blessings than you dare hope for.' "

" What does he mean ?" said Fabre. " Is it a wish ? — is
it a promise?"

" I cannot tell. The only blessing that I expect is the
reconciliation which he promises me. What more have I to
hope for ? Since the death of Madeleine " —

♦* Madeleine is dead I "

" Did you not know it ? *'

" Where did she die ? At the convent ?"

'^ At the house of an abbe, who wished to make her his
mistress."

^* The miscreant 1 and you knew of it ?"

" Too late. She being dead, you understand that my
hopes in this world cannot go further than my being once
more received into favour by my former brethren. Be that
as it may, I was determined to pass by this spot; I was de-
termined to see these scenes once more."

" And I too," said Fabre, interrupting him, that he might
not go back upon his lamentable story. " I arrived at Nimes
last night. I had only time to embrace my father."

" And bow is mine, Fabre ? In what state did you leave
him ? I know that you have been a son to him."

" My departure was very distressing to him."

^^ Did you know that I had asked permission to take his
place?"

" Yes ; and that it had been refused."

" It was but just. I did not deserve to be allowed to per-
form a noble action."

They were arrived at the Temple. This was, it will be
remembered, the name of one of the spots where the large
assemblies were held. It could contain ten thousand persons.

JOS FRANCE BEr<lRE THE REVOLUTION.

The place had been rendered celelirated m the history of tM
Desert, by the nuinerous issues it afforded, and tlio height
favourably sitnated round it, wiienee danger could be descrii
afar off.

Some members of the flock, who had arrived by different
roads, were already assembled there. The pulpit was erected,
and behind it, a tent for the pastors.

The arrivftls succeeded each other, £rst at intervals, then
more rapidly. Very soon, although there was still an hoMT

to wait, every plac

Narniers. They i
quences of their en

1 filled. The greater nnmber, how-
ire of the protection of the Marquis c
fime, as usual, ready to bear the i
me. They had left their homes, sayiug fl
', that perhaps they might never retn
to them.

The death of Rochette and the three brothers, that of Ceist
the details of which had only been known for two or tbrt
days past, naturally formed the Bnbjeet of every conver-
sation. They felt more than ever under the rod ; and yet
never had a larger or a more zealous asaemhly been seen at
the Temple.

The attraction h«ld out by the ceremony of the day ■»
added to their usual zeal ; and to this atti'actioo was j
that of the very danger itself, and of those remembrance
marked with blood, which they delighted to revire.
seemed glorious to them to erect that pulpit which for a, htd
dred years past kings and Parliaments had outvied each
in undermining — in the very face of the gallows of one wh(
formerly ascended it. All, at the recital of these glorioi
deaths, had asked themselves if they should so die. All ha^
felt the desire to make proof of their own courage, by bravi^
once more the laws that Buohette had braved.
A crowd had gathered round Fabre, and even

FRIESTB, INFIDELS, AND HUOOENOTB. 409

crowd roimd Brnyn. His friend'a words were already veri-
fied ; these pnor people were more rejoiced and more affected
at the Big'ht of repentance than at that of spotless virtue,
even when BurrounUed hy all the brilliancy that the world
could give to it.

According to old onstom, seven pastors were to take part
in the imposition of hands. The pastors, Vincent, Guizot,
Encontre, Gibert, Bastide, and Pradel, had already arrived in
BUecesaion, accompanied by the elders of their several chnrches.
Onr two friends, who were near the tent, had seen them
enter it.

" He is not arrived," said Brnyn.

'* Yim know that he is stopped at every step ; ao many
people want to speak to him. But what is the matter with
you?"

" He arrived late, too, on the day that — my God I my
God 1" Brnyn hid'his face. " No," resumed he, "no, it is
too much for me. I feel all my torments of that day renewed.
Do not try to take the feeling from me — it is useless."

"Well, here is a sight that will take it away."

Rabaut arrived at that moment, preceded by his four guides,
and followed by a niunerous party. His son, to whom all eyes
were turned, was at his side.

When he had nearly reached the middle of the assembly,
he asked if Bruyn had been seen. He was answered in the
afSrmative, and totd that he would find him a tittle further
00. But his question hud already passed from mouth to
mouth. Brnyn came forward ; Fabre took him by the hand,
and they both went to meet the pastor. He looked at them
for a moment ; then, without saying a word, motioned to
them to follow him.

A platform, prepared for the six pastors who were to assist
him, had been raised at the foot of the putpit. He made the

410 FKANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION,

two young men ascend it, and there, standing Wlweeii them,
ill the midst of profound silence, he said: —

" My brethren, here is the prodigal son, and here tha wn
who has remained pure. To-day you all repreBect the father.
Bniyn has sinned ; but Bruyn has said to himself, * I will
ansa, and go to my hither, uiid will say unto him, Pather, I
have BiciiiGd' " —

" Yes," said Bmya, throwing himself on his knees.

"Brethren," pursued the pastor, "do you forgive him?"

"Yea," esclaimed the whole assembly.

" Do you declare him to be reinstated in all bis rights as >
member of the church ?"

" Yes."

" Fabre, raise him up. You have acquired, in yoiir bonda,
the right of representing the oppressed church ; it is the only
reward she has to offer you. Cwae, now— come, my chil-
dren."

They threw themselves into his arms ; and in snght of tha J
multitude, all deeply affected, he long continued to repe
blessings over tliem.

At length, as they came down from the platform with him,
he said, " Do not go ^ from us ; " and he then went to join
the pastors, who, astiembled before the tent, had witnessed this
interesting scene. But whilst their friends oame from all ades
to clasp then- hands once more,

" Fabre," said Bruyn, in a whisper, " did you see ?"

"What?"

" Down there, behind the pastors."

" Well ?"

" A man wrapped in a cloak, and another younger one
beside him."

" No."

" The young man ia the Marquis de Namiers."

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 411

" He has wished to see our assembly. We have often had
Eomanists present."

"Yes; but the other, he tried to keep out of sight, and
yet — I am almost sure of it, it was — it was Father Bridaine I "

Bruyn was told that the pastors had sent for him. As he
drew near to the tent, the Marquis — for it was indeed he—
Game out of it.

" Bruyn," said he, holding out his hand to him, " yom?
brethren have forgiven you ; will you not forgive me like-
wise ? I have done you great wrong."

" Let us say no more about it," said the Cevenol,

"No — let us speak of it. I desire, Bruyn, to acknow-
ledge it openly. I do it without difficultv, I can assure
you."

"I believe you. But I repeat, let us say no more
about it ; if not on your own account, on mine. The past
is too painful."

" The future will make up for it."

" Impossible."

" How do you know that?"

" What do I know of it I You look at me — ^witb an ex-
pression — Good Godl what do you mean?"

" Let us go in."

They went forward. But how shall we describe what then
took place ?

Upon the threshold stood Bruyn, breathless and motionless ;
a few steps from him, Madeleine, almost fainting.

M. de Namiers, the bishop, was dead. His nephew, who
succeeded him, allowed the rumour of Madeleine's death to
circulate ; he then thought it prudent to get rid of a mistress,
who had besides only the name of one. He therefore resigned
himself to the loss of his wager. He confessed to the Colonel
that Madeleine was still alive, and that he, the invincible

412 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTION.

abb6, had found her invincible. The Colonel wrote to Eabant
on the subject, and they concerted together to restore her to
him of whom she had remained worthy.

The Marquis took her by the hand, and said —

" Bruyn, she was pure when taken from you, and pure I
now restore her,"

And whilst the Cevenol, who had evidently waited for this
assurance in order to believe his happiness real, at length
clasped his betrothed in his arms :

" My poor friend," resumed he, "this is not like the wind-
ing up of a piece on the stage, where all is perfect bliss.
Your father is at Toulon ; your mother is at Aigues-Mortes.
Madeleine's grandfather and brothers are likewise at Toulon,
Will all these relations, whose presence is wanting to your
happiness, be restored to you ? I think that you may hope
it, but I dare not promise it to you. The number of your
enemies is diminishing from day to day ; but you have some
who are irreconcilable, and they are those who rule over
men's consciences. Unless they would retract their own
opinions, they could not consent now to let you be free and
at peace. Nevertheless, I repeat it — hope."

"Yes," said Rabaut, "in spite of persecutors, God and
time will accomplish their own work. Children," said he,
" while you await a still more solemn blessing, let me give
you mine. Misfortune had estranged you from God ; misfor-
tune has brought you back to Him. May you be wholly His,
now and for ever I May you belong more entirely to Him
than to each other I"

"Amen I" murmured a voice that made the Cevenol start.
He turned round. It was Bridaine.

The hour drew near. A deep silence had succeeded to the
hum of the crowd. The reader was in the pulpit. The pre-
cious verses, solemn and distinct, reached the remotest comeis

PRIESTS, INFIDELS, AND HUGUENOTS. 413

of the Temple ; and ten thousand hearts received with grati-
tude and joy this ancient manna of their Desert.

Suddenly, the same triumphal hymn that had sounded three
months before, from lips now closed for ever, burst forth from
ten thousand voices.

The procession had just left the tent. It was indeed as
humble a procession as could be seen ; but what recollections,
what prayers accompanied it, as it passed through the people I
First came some of the elders, then Eabaut, then his son,
between two pastors, then the four others — all in their gowns.
Some elders followed them, and that was all. Protestantism
was there in all its pomp : such as Bridaine saw it under the
vault of heaven, such he would have seen it under the vaulted
roof of the cathedral of Geneva.

He had remained in the tent. He could see all without
being seen. He had before him the pulpit and the first rows
of the hearers.

At the foot of the pulpit, on the platform, were seated the
pastors ; before them the candidate for orders. Finally,
Eabaut occupied the pulpit.

Then—

But wherefore try to follow, step by step, a ceremony of
which we could give but a faint and insignificant outline ?
To those who cannot themselves feel what it must have been
at that spot, under that sky, ten days after the death of Galas,
and barely a month after the death of Eochette, — ^we should
not, by any description that we could give, succeed in repre-
senting it.

But in the midst of so many hearts that were deeply
affected, perhaps the most affected was the one that none
perceived — Bridaine.

All that he had felt a month before, near Eochette's scaf-
fold, he felt at this moment, at the sight of that young

414 FRANCE BEFORE THE REVOLUTIOIf.

man, upon whom his own &ther was conferring the right to
ascend it.

A Toice within him cried out, " Thou too hast shed it I "
all the blood from the midst of which that pulpit seemed to
rise up.

He trembled, too, at the thought of hearing that text which
he had himself involuntarily given to Eabaut, nearly two
years before ; he hoped that Eabaut would have forgotten it.
But no* " I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves,"
«aid he; and the agitation of the assembly, the sobs that
burst forth, and the emotion of the preacher himself, soon
made the text alone the most eloquent of sermons.

An hour afterwards, they returned to the tent, and the
newly-ordained minister threw himself, in tears, into the
arms of the preacher.

The preacher, exhausted in body and mind, could only
murmur, " My son — my son — may God be with thee I"

And another voice repeated, " Amen I amen I '*

This time it was his farewell. Bridaine had exhausted all
his courage and power of emotion. He mingled with the
crowd, and retired : the Christian had suffered too much ; the
priest would have struggled against it, but he could not.

l^E END.

kDiNBuren : t. coitstablb, pfturrxs to fisit siajbtt. ^

1th ♦

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